


December Decadence Challenge

by navigatorsghost



Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One)
Genre: Affection, Aftermath of Possession, Alien Cultural Differences, Alt-Mode Sexual Interfacing, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Captivity, Clothed Sex, Clothing Kink, Clueless Virgins, Consensual, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Consensual Violence, Depression, Discipline, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent Fantasy, Enemies to Lovers, Enthusiastic Consent, Erotic Dreams, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Grief/Mourning, Human Sex, Hurt/Comfort, In Public, Kink Negotiation, Kissing, Light Petting, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, Outdoor Sex, Painplay, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamorous relationship, Polyfidelity, Power Exchange, Prompt Fic, Psychological Trauma, Rough Sex, Sentient Spaceship, Serious Injuries, Sex Toys, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Roleplay, Spark Sexual Interfacing, Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, Tactile Sexual Interfacing, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Transformers as Humans, Trust Issues, Violent Sex, Voyeurism, Weapons Kink, altmode kink, and still enemies as well, black blood and purple prose, eighties cartoon science, eroticisation of violence, hardware compatibility issues, implied/inferred consent, improper use of bodily functions, no seriously really clueless, repairs and maintenance, talking about sex, truce'verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2019-09-05 06:23:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 99,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16805194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navigatorsghost/pseuds/navigatorsghost
Summary: Thirty-day porn prompts challenge which was originally for December 2018, all focusing on the Unicronian OT3 with various supporting cast. (Since someone quite rightly brought it up in comments, please be aware that pretty much every fic here will assume, and may mention, background polyfidelity between all three Unicronians and possibly also Rodimus Prime, who appears in a bunch of these.) Assorted lengths, ratings, and pairings, specific warnings in each chapter. I was trying to post one fic per day but the muses have apparently never heard of the idea of SHORT prompt fills, so this is now just an ongoing writing exercise that's going to end whenever it ends...





	1. First time - Galvatron/Rodimus Prime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galvatron/Rodimus Prime, for the prompt "First Time". Original post: [here](https://of-fire-and-light.tumblr.com/post/180691817367/im-doing-a-30-day-porn-challenge-for-december). (Warnings: contains mentions of sexual pressure/unwanted advances, but the actual sex is fully and freely consensual. Tactile-style interfacing, rating about PG-13.)

When Rodimus Prime had still been Hot Rod, the issue of his first time had been a somewhat vexed one.

To put it bluntly, it had been a long time since anyone in the Autobots had even seen a virgin who was uncontroversially available to proposition. The veteran Earth crew had been doing their respective things while the Cybertronian survivors did theirs, for a long time and in many and various permutations. The Dinobots were off-limits to everyone but each other because nobody was quite sure if they were sapient enough for their consent to be valid, and the Aerialbots were a gestalt and you just didn't hit on combiner teams until after they'd figured out their own internal dynamics, that was bad form. So Hot Rod and Arcee, as the first newsparked singletons in a few million years, were a matter of great interest to the more libidinous of their teammates.

Hot Rod really hadn't been comfortable with that. Just because he was fast and shiny and a natural extrovert didn't mean he was automatically _easy_ , and he'd not entirely known what to do with all the attention other than turn it down as gracefully as he could. Thankfully, the propositions had tailed off relatively quickly when he didn't start accepting them and left him with some space to contemplate what, if anything, _he_ wanted from the mysterious domain of interfacing.

He hadn't really been sure about it. He'd heard it was fun, but then again, so were plenty of other things. He'd also heard that it could be a big deal if you let feelings get involved, and that made him want to be cautious. Better to miss a chance or two, he decided, than do something he might regret; especially when he'd yet to meet anyone who gave him the kind of thoughts that he'd gathered were a prerequisite for trying it at all. But he'd still had some expectations, however hazy and hypothetical. He'd assumed he’d lose his virginity sooner or later. He'd hoped he would enjoy it, and that the other participant wouldn't turn out to be a jerk afterwards.

He'd totally assumed that he would still be Hot Rod when it happened. And he'd absolutely, definitely, in-all-but-his-worst-nightmares taken it for granted that the other person involved _wasn't going to be a Decepticon._ Because, ewww, who would want to do _that?_

Apparently, it turned out, him.

None of his tentative fantasies had ever touched upon the possibility of him developing a planet-size crush on an enemy faction leader. The idea of said enemy faction leader _returning_ his feelings was a whole order of magnitude further outside the bounds of probability. Then again, probability did weird things around the Herald of Unicron; and that was the only excuse he could think of for how he'd ended up here, sprawled on his back in the nickel-iron dust of an anonymous asteroid halfway between Charr and Cybertron, with Galvatron - _Galvatron, of all mechs!_ \- on top of him and... the only word that came to Rodimus's pleasure-drunk processors was _ravishing_ him.

He hadn't ever imagined anything that felt like this. He hadn't known his sensornets could spark so intoxicatingly at the wicked touch of rough, skilful fingertips that dragged skeins of fire across his plating with every fierce caress. He hadn't realised that kissing could involve mouths wide open and dentae nicking each other's lips and getting someone else's glossa rammed what felt like most of the way down his throat. He'd never expected his first lover to be the kind of person who would start their seduction of him by pinning his wrists to the floor.

He'd never dreamed that all of that would turn out to be _everything he'd ever wanted._ Except apparently it _was_ , because he was arching up into Galvatron's hands and mouth and clutching at his shoulders in delicious desperation and having absolutely no second thoughts about any of it. His hardlink ports and cables were pulsing with charge and anticipation under their concealing armour, and he couldn’t seem to stop squirming despite Galvatron's entire bodyweight holding him down - which was another thing he hadn't ever contemplated, but _ohhh Primus_ apparently he liked that too. "Mmmf-!"

Galvatron broke the kiss and pulled back for a moment, raising his head to look down at Rodimus. The Herald's features were stamped with a wicked grin, his optics were slits of joyful carmine fire, and Rodimus felt dizzy just looking at him. "Still enjoying yourself, Prime?" he asked playfully.

"No kidding," Rodimus managed, gasping and grinning raggedly back. "Don’t _stop..._ "

"I wasn’t going to!" Galvatron retorted, seemingly delighted by his reaction, and dived back in to pounce on his mouth again. Rodimus let out a muffled yelp and hooked his foot over the back of Galvatron’s knee, pulling him closer and running his hands eagerly over every inch of the warlord’s heavy armour that he could reach.

One thing was for sure at least, he thought briefly. The various older 'Bots who’d cautioned him that _you'll never forget your first time_ had no idea how right they'd been.


	2. Masturbation - Galvatron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galvatron, for the prompt "Masturbation". Original post [here](https://of-fire-and-light.tumblr.com/post/180726094462/im-doing-a-30-day-porn-challenge-for-december). (Warnings: this prompt did not go where I was expecting. I was just going to write PWP and I ended up with an entire actual fic. Warnings I guess for captivity, lack of privacy, improper use of bodily functions, a dash of body horror, canon-typical violence, and Quintessons. I don’t even know how I came up with this idea and I’m blaming Galvatron-muse for everything. Tactile-style, rating M.)

"Are you certain the containment is secure?"

"Yes. This subject's key weakness is its dependence on its integral weaponry." The Quintesson scientist gestured towards the enormous golden cannon currently lying disconnected on its workbench. "Once disarmed, its cognitive instability and the loss of its transformation function render it... essentially harmless."

On the other side of the room, the subject in question gave an incoherent scream and launched itself at the energy bars restraining it. It hit the barrier hard enough to send jarring arcs of lightning crackling over its own frame and halfway across the laboratory into the bargain, and the prosecutor recoiled with a concerned look. "I reiterate, are you certain?"

The scientist waved a dismissive tentacle. "Brute force is ineffective against energy bars. The results you observe are superficial, although painful to the subject. The only possible scenario for a loss of containment would be a total overload of the restraint generator system, and without its weapon, the subject is incapable of achieving this."

The prosecutor shrugged, a dubious roll of its shoulder assemblies that sent its tentacles spiralling eloquently. "I will convey your report to the Imperial Magistrate."

"By all means." The scientist's tone remained suitably polite, but it unobtrusively made the gesture for _get out from under my repulsors_ with a spare manipulator cable as it turned back to its interrupted study of the cannon it had removed from the corrupted Decepticon subject. The weapon was absurdly overengineered, and the mass of complex circuitry in its base seemed to serve several functions beyond the obvious. The scientist bent its frame forwards and peered closer.

On the other side of the energy bars, Galvatron picked himself up from the floor into a huddled crouch, his frame shaking with rage and - _not_ fear, he refused to be afraid of these disgusting vermin! Despite the bars, despite the loss of his weapon, despite the fact that the Quintessons had succeeded in separating him from his forces and trapping him like this... he was still Galvatron! He feared nothing and no-one, and the Quintessons were going to regret laying their tentacles on him for the rest of their painfully-curtailed lives!

...just as soon as he figured out how to get _out_ of here. He shook the pain from his latest impact with the bars out of his cranial circuitry, overclocked processors racing as he scanned and collated all the data he had on his conditions of imprisonment. The wall behind him was solid metal and his deep scanners - not on a par with Scourge's, but they were good enough at close range - told him that there was nothing beyond it but rock. No meaningful prospect of escape lay that way. His cannon was on the Quintesson's workbench with a bank of diagnostic equipment plugged into it, far out of reach and therefore useless to him.

He paused his tactical assessment for a moment to snarl the rage out of his spark at the sight of a _piece of himself_ , let alone one so precious, being so intimately molested by a _Quintesson_ of all things! He received, at least, the minor satisfaction of seeing the scientist flinch slightly and hunch down at the fury in his voice. It had _some_ fear of him, then!

What had the miserable creature said? " _The only possible scenario for a loss of containment would be a total overload of the restraint generator system..._ " Galvatron rose to his feet, approached the bars, and experimentally smashed the side of his fist against the closest one, pushing a surge of his own internal charge through his gauntlet's plating as he did so.

There was a lancing stab of pain through his hand, a crackle of electrical discharge, and a brief shudder in the pillar of collimated hard-light that formed the bar. Galvatron cursed, and heard the scientist _snicker_.

Good! Let it underestimate him! Let it take him for a brute and an imbecile, injuring himself deliberately and to no purpose. As far as Galvatron was concerned, a jolt of pain was a small price to pay for information he could use - and what that little test had revealed was that the bars were indeed highly energy-radiant and reacted badly to any kind of reversal of current. Therefore, _if_ he could shove enough power _back_ through them in the wrong direction, then the whole system should blow up in fine style. It would be trivially easy, too, if he had his cannon! But of course even the Quintessons' hubris didn't stretch _that_ far, which was why he didn't.

" _Without its weapon, the subject is incapable of achieving this..._ "

Galvatron growled to himself as he ran through his options, and rapidly narrowed them down. In purely mathematical terms, the Quintesson scientist was quite simply wrong. The amount of power that his Unicron-forged engines and massive capacitor banks were capable of generating, containing and releasing was enough to short out everything the Quintessons had here three times over! The only challenge, without his cannon as a conduit, was _how_ to get that much charge out of his systems in a single forced burst that would be of sufficient magnitude...

...well, there _was_ a way that would work.

He turned his back on the Quintesson and knelt on the floor, so close to the bars that his gunsight "tail" would brush them if he so much as leaned backwards. Next he ran through his sensor suites, temporarily restricting their range as much as he could. This would not be any easier if he were forced to be constantly reminded of the fact that _there was a Quintesson behind him,_ so he did as much as was feasible to block the loathsome creature out of his perceptions, and then, leaving only a couple of picket subroutines running in his sensory centres in case of any sudden threats, he pulled his mind deep into his metaprocessor and shuttered his optics.

In theory, all he had to do was to force more charge into his capacitor banks than their failsafes would allow them to try and contain; at that point, his systems would overload, dumping all of that charge to the nearest available earth point. In this barren cell, that would be the bars at his back and their associated power banks, which would inevitably short out in turn. In practice, the more charge was already in his capacitors the harder it became to persuade his engines to generate any more, because automatic overrides would cut in and try to force his systems to use up the stored charge instead. Anywhere up to eighty percent capacitance was easy enough to reach, but the last twenty percent grew exponentially more difficult, and the last three or four were the hardest of all. A full-system overload was simply highly undesirable in functional terms, and thus there were plenty of safety measures that had to be overridden or flat-out overwhelmed in order to induce one deliberately.

It was a testament to the perversity of sentient nature, really, that the vast majority of Cybertronians enjoyed the sensation so much that they'd come up with all kinds of ways to force it to happen. Most even had dedicated hardware for it; although Galvatron, forged by the hand of Unicron for purpose rather than pleasure, did not. All he had was his raw power, his knowledge of his own frame, and the memories of what had worked when he'd done this in the past. Those would have to be enough.

Topping off his capacitor banks to that starting-default eighty percent was easy - a simple internal command sufficed for that. He relaxed into the sensation as his engines kicked up a gear, into the pulse of heat that spread from deep in his midsection and expanded through his frame. Despite the degrading circumstances that had reduced him to attempting this, he couldn't help but enjoy the molten rush of power through his systems, the restless heat and energy that filled him and tugged at his processors, demanding to be _used_. Instinct urged him to rise to his feet, to pace, to strike at something or shoot something or launch himself into flight, anything at all to burn off the surplus charge-!

He controlled that impulse with a simple mental override. There was nothing to do and nowhere for him to go anyway, and he'd barely begun. He folded his arms across his chest, his left hand finding the empty hardpoint sockets where his cannon had been detached from his gauntlet. Part of him recoiled at touching where a piece of himself was so flagrantly _missing_ ; but his sensornets were used to touches there meaning good things, and the corresponding neural pathways triggered readily enough. Pleasure pulsed hot in his circuits, feeding back and urging his engines to spin up harder as his processors flickered lightning-fast through sensation and memory and association...

_Cyclonus on his knees at Galvatron's feet, looking up at him in devotion and absolute trust, one hand and his mouth pressed in hungry, fervent worship to the barrel of Galvatron's cannon. His other hand had rested where Galvatron's own hand was now, toying and teasing at the heavy bolts that secured the great weapon in its mountings..._

Galvatron shuddered at that memory, eagerly pulling it to the top of his databanks to be relived and enjoyed. He recalled it vividly now: Cyclonus had been so tense with his own pleasure and need that his wings had been visibly quivering and there had been charge arcing to his glossa and fingertips every time he broke contact with Galvatron's plating for even a moment, but he hadn't protested, only poured all of that desire and desperation into his efforts to satisfy his lord. When Galvatron had overloaded that time he'd pushed Cyclonus off the edge in turn without even needing to touch him.

With only the slightest stretch of his imagination, he could hear Cyclonus's scream of ecstasy ringing in his audials even now. A scorching shock of desire pulsed down his backstrut and he gritted his dentae to hold back a moan, tensor cables creaking, straining taut with desire. _Sweet, sweet Cyclonus..._ so like him, to somehow manage to serve Galvatron's will and need without even _being_ here! Galvatron privately promised himself that he would reward Cyclonus for this as soon as the two of them were reunited, even though his lieutenant would probably have no idea why. He'd never known surprise or confusion to make Cyclonus any less willing, after all, so it didn't really tend to matter whether Galvatron explained himself or not. What _mattered_ , certainly here and now, was the thought of Cyclonus underneath him, wide-opticked and willing and _trembling_ with desire, gasping Galvatron's name and all his titles and honorifics in a litany of adoration that would be silenced only if Galvatron's mouth covered his...!

In the black behind his closed optic shutters, Galvatron's system readouts flickered up _ninety percent total charge_ , and through the heated haze of fantasy and arousal, he found the coordination for a fierce, hidden grin of triumph. This was working better _and_ faster than he'd ever hoped, certainly given the highly unconducive circumstances in which he was attempting it. Another muffled moan escaped him as he shifted his position - carefully, not wanting to brush accidentally against the bars at his back.

Across the room, the Quintesson scientist looked around from its studies, wondering at the sudden lack of violent activity from the cage. The subject was kneeling on the floor with its back turned to the bars, hunched over and twitching, making small sounds suggestive of discomfort. There was a faint but distinctive scent of hot metal and scorched insulation in the air of the lab.

Clearly the subject had thrown itself into the bars one time too often and done itself some sort of electrical injury. The scientist shrugged, unconcerned. If it were in real pain, let alone at any risk of major component failure, it would be making far more fuss. The scientist would leave it to recover alone, and check on it later if nothing changed... for one thing, even injured, getting too close to it would be inadvisable without proper precautions. This particular subject had, after all, passed into infamy among the Quintessons after it bounced an Imperial Magistrate off the floor by the tentacles, and the scientist shared the rest of its species' healthy drive towards self-preservation.

Unseen by the scientist as it turned away once again, Galvatron ran his fingers down the tightly-sealed, hidden central seam of his glacis chestplate. His fingertips were dripping with charge now, and he groaned quietly at the tingling pleasure of his own energies seeping back into his core circuitry through the crack between the closed plates. It wasn't as effective as opening them up and working on those circuits directly would have been, but in the circumstances Galvatron wasn't taking any chances that might leave him even slightly vulnerable.

He briefly, silently cursed his creator. While he usually appreciated his heavy armour and the massive quantities of exotic shielding that Unicron had seen fit to build into it, his construction did make certain things... _difficult_ , and this was one of them. His frame had few external sensitive spots; and even more infuriatingly, some of the ones it _did_ have he couldn't easily reach. His tailsight was deliciously responsive if touched in the right way, but getting at it himself involved torquing his shoulder and elbow joints past their comfortable tolerances and would be entirely too conspicuous in the current situation anyway...

...his databanks helpfully volunteered another memory. _Lying stretched out on his front, arms folded to prop himself up on his elbows, with Cyclonus kneeling, straddling his hips, his weight resting comfortably on Galvatron's pelvic section. Cyclonus's mouth pressed to the top of his tailsight, glossa flicking into the narrow notch at its tip, while with one hand he reached down to caress the segmented armour of Galvatron's collar below the edge of his helm..._

He shuddered, arching his back; pulling the sensation as close to the surface of his memories as he could until it was almost _real_ , until he could almost feel the heat of his lieutenant's mouth on tingling sensornets and the slick silver of Cyclonus's familiar energy signature sliding through his armour seams to spark against the circuitry beneath. He was barely aware of his own hand sliding up his chest and onto the edge of his collar, his fingertips rubbing along the sleek white metal there and leaving golden-hot trails of his own charge sizzling in their wake. He slid those fingers higher, tilting his head to reach into the narrow space beside his shoulder pylon and brushing them against the sleek flexmetal of his throat, and swallowed back another moan. _Ninety-five percent..._

His other hand slid downwards, his touch tracing the lines of the white cross low on his abdomen and then shifting to the red lightpanel on the centre of his belt strip, its glow blazing brighter as the complex circuitry behind it sparked and tingled in response. _Ninety-seven percent_ and this was starting to _hurt_ , his blacked-out visual display flickering with containment warnings and his capacitor banks tight with charge that was aching for somewhere to go besides back into his own systems. But the pain blurred easily enough into pleasure, even if this was the wrong place and the wrong time and all the wrong reasons to be doing this at all, and he tensed hard and tried not to make a sound that would offer any warning to the creature behind him that _oh he was about to bring down the wrath of the Voidbringer Himself on it and all its kind and this entire facility and the whole blasted planet if he had to-!_

-and _that_ was the thought that pushed him over the edge, the anticipation of feeling this place and everything in it _coming apart under his hands,_ and as his charge crested and his vision lit up white-golden from the inside and his frame arched taut in a glorious mingling of pleasure and pain, Galvatron switched all his sensory arrays back on, snapped off his capacitor interlocks, and threw himself backwards into the bars as hard as he could.

The shockwave of released power exploded across the laboratory like a golden thunderbolt. The containment field generators blew out with a colossal _thud_ that cracked rock and buckled metal, every console screen in the room exploded, and Galvatron's scream of pleasure pitch-shifted into a triumphant battlecry as he rolled, came up on his feet, and lunged for the workbench that had _his cannon_ on it. He kicked the stunned scientist out of his way without a second thought, snatched up the great weapon - ripping it free of the invasive data cables that the Quintesson had plugged into it - and slammed it into place on his gauntlet.

The magnetic bolts caught and locked. His targeting systems rebooted and resynchronised in the space of astroseconds. Galvatron swung around, shot the scientist for good measure, tracked across, blew the door of the laboratory off its hinges, and ran for the exit. Battle-rage blazed crimson behind his optics, the exhilaration of it flooding his systems and tangling with the last shreds of a post-overload high that he really didn't have the time to appreciate, and he grinned in exultation as he blasted another bulkhead door out of his way without breaking stride.

The complex shook as whatever damage his escape strategy had caused ricocheted deeper into the base's systems, chain detonations thudding muffled through the rock and metal around him. The ceiling cracked, and several pieces of it showered down and bounced off his armour. Galvatron laughed, delighted, and his laughter only grew louder as a hastily-scrambled pack of Sharkticons appeared in his path, optics goggling and snaggletoothed jaws open wide. All things considered, that little trick back there had been something of a waste of a good overload, but it didn't matter. By the time he'd finished destroying this place he'd definitely be in the mood for another one, and hopefully this time he'd have time, space and company to enjoy it properly-

//-atron? My lord! Can you hear me?//

His radio crackled into life, startling him - the Quintessons' jamming apparatus must have been the latest casualty of the destruction. He grinned at the sound of his lieutenant's voice, coming so quick on the heels of the thoughts he'd just been harbouring. //No need to shout, Cyclonus! Where are you?!//

//Galvatron!// There was an audible gasp of relief bracketing his name. //Stationed in orbit, my lord. The Quintessons are trying to evacuate, we have a firing solution on their ship - what are your orders?//

//Carry on! Wipe them off the face of the galaxy for me!// He snarled laughter, knowing Cyclonus would take delight in following _that_ order to the letter. //I'll be with you shortly!// He could see daylight ahead of him - the Sharkticons had been dispatched with barely a thought while he was talking to Cyclonus, and the facility's launch pad lay ahead with its access doors already open. He lengthened his stride, racing towards it.

He was just in time, as he cleared the doors, to see the Quintesson ship explode in a glorious burst of fire somewhere in the upper atmosphere, skewered by a magnificently precise twin-blast from the _Dis'_ prow guns. //Good shot, Cyclonus!//

//Thank you, mighty Galvatron!//

He laughed and kicked off the ground between one step and the next, firing his thrusters and soaring through the rain of blazing debris towards his flagship. Cyclonus had _definitely_ earned that reward Galvatron was planning to give him at least three times over.


	3. Oral sex - Scourge/Rodimus Prime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scourge/Rodimus Prime, for the prompt "Oral sex". Original post: [here](https://of-fire-and-light.tumblr.com/post/180775801317/im-doing-a-30-day-porn-challenge-for-december). (Warnings: None, really. This fic is from a timeline wherein Rodimus is partnered with all three Unicronians, but it happens to be just him and Scourge this particular time. Just a good time between established friends/lovers - indeed, such a good time that it took them ages to get to the actual prompt, ahem. Tactile/plug-and-play interfacing, rating M.)

When the shadows moved in the dark of his berthroom and blinked at him with crimson optics, Rodimus Prime at least managed to jump _quietly_.

"Scourge?!" he hissed. "What are you doing here?"

The tracker slid out of the shadows, unfurling himself from where he'd been tucked against the wall with his EM fields damped to near nothingness. Midnight-blue wings flexed, and there was a low, soft thrum of engines as he powered his systems back up. "Testing your security?" he offered, with a crooked little grin. "I got in here way too easily, Prime. You should do something about that."

Rodimus relaxed with a quiet laugh. "Yeah, right. Hello yourself." He sat down on his berth and patted the space beside him.

Scourge moved to join him - he had to sit sideways, one silver thigh hitched up on the edge of the berth to give his wings room to curve over the berth end. Rodimus's sleeping arrangements were configured to Autobot specifications, and there wasn't a lot Rodimus could do about that. "I need my berth rebuilt because I'm secretly clanging bolts with the Decepticon high command" was something he was never going to be able to write on a requisition form.

It wasn't like he could entirely believe it himself, even now. He'd used up all the daring he'd thought he had in him when he set out to seduce Galvatron. Discovering that succeeding in that meant getting both of Galvatron's triadmates thrown in for free had been a shock he still hadn't quite recovered from.

But that didn't mean he didn't love it. Galvatron was glorious, was intoxicating, was _everything_ and Rodimus adored him to the brink of blasphemy, but the other two Unicronians had won his spark in their own ways in turn. Cyclonus was all deep strength and dependability, Rodimus's confidant and shelter, gifted in all the subtle cruelties and kindnesses that Galvatron never slowed down enough for. And Scourge...

Scourge was the one who _got_ him. The Sweep leader's wry cynicism, seemingly inescapable bad luck and tendency to insecurity all struck echoes in Rodimus's spark, and he'd instinctively reached out to Scourge on the strength of that alone.

And Scourge had reached back. Warily at first, to be sure, but now they were the kind of friends and lovers who - well, who could do things like sneaking into each other's berthrooms behind nominal enemy lines with no decent excuse. Rodimus shifted closer to his friend, glad of the company even if it was all distinctly irregular. "So," he said. "Since you're here and apparently Red Alert hasn't spotted you yet, what shall we do now?"

Scourge laughed quietly. "I, ah, hadn't really thought that far ahead," he admitted. "You have any ideas?"

Rodimus looked at him in the dim light, his gaze lingering on the gleam of energon-dipped claws, the weighted grace of those huge exotic wings, the elegant slant of Scourge's optics and the crooked line of his mouth half masked by his beard... and he shivered. "You know," he said, lowering his voice, "you're scary good at the whole hunter-tracker thing. I didn't have the first idea you were here when I came in." He hesitated, feeling his spark's pulse quicken, knowing his optics must have darkened a shade or two. "You could have done anything you wanted to me."

Scourge's optics widened and Rodimus _felt_ him catch on, felt the sudden quick flare of interest and desire that pulsed in a shimmer of shadows through his aura. "Who says I still can't?" he growled, and leaned in.

Rodimus tilted his head, and savoured the thrill that ran through him as their lips met. Scourge's hand reached for his arm with a shiver-sweet scratch of claws on Rodimus's chrome; Rodimus let out a soft whimper that was caught and silenced by the dark-heat press of his friend's mouth on his. Scourge growled softly, the bass pulse of his engines subtly shaking Rodimus's frame as the two of them pulled each other closer, and...

Rodimus wasn't afraid, and not only because he was on his own territory and knew he was a fair match for Scourge in a fight. He _trusted_ Scourge, and that went further than any merely pragmatic guarantee of safety ever could. But the thing about Scourge was that Unicron had _built_ him to be frightening, had picked out the images that haunted the nightmares of Cybertron's collective unconscious and forged them into something that was _meant_ to make mortals shudder. _Give it wings so it can reach you anywhere, give it fangs and claws so it can tear you apart. Give it dark colours and shadows and stealth so you will never see it until it's too late to run. Give it eyes as red as fire that can see through any darkness to find you._

And Rodimus _did_ shiver briefly, here like this in the shadows with all of that held close in his arms - even knowing that behind those crimson optics was only his friend and lover. He clutched tighter at Scourge, savouring that delicious little frisson of instinctive terror, and then pulled back. "Just a minute," he whispered.

Scourge looked at him curiously. Rodimus tucked himself up onto the berth properly, stretching himself out on his back - deliberately vulnerable, it wasn't a position he could get up from quickly - and let his limbs drape loosely as he tilted his head back. "Okay," he murmured, giving Scourge a little grin and letting his aura flicker warm with invitation and desire. " _Now_ I'm all yours."

" _Oh,_ " Scourge breathed, and Rodimus saw his optics darken. He saw the flex and glint of Scourge's claws, the lift of his wings as he moved, and then the tracker's shadow fell sharp-edged across him as Scourge crawled onto the berth above him, one knee between Rodimus's parted thighs, his hand coming down on Rodimus's shoulder. He looked gorgeously intimidating like this, his body blacked out in silhouette and the strong lines of his features sketched gleaming where the glow of his own optics caught them, and Rodimus shivered hard enough to make his own plating rattle as he reached up eagerly-

-Scourge's free hand caught his and pushed it down, pinning it to the berth, and Rodimus gasped. "Scourge-!"

"You asked for this," Scourge growled, and Rodimus didn't have time for a _yes_ before Scourge's mouth was on his again and all he could do was arch up under Scourge's weight and pour all of his willingness and desire and delight into his fields instead. He totally _had_ asked for this, and the last thing he was going to do was complain at getting it.

Even so, for all the implied menace, Scourge wasn't really being rough with him. Just _eager_ , running his claws down Rodimus's chestplate and leaving delicious trails of tingling static in their wake, kissing him urgently; and Rodimus was _very_ much fine with that. "Mmm...!"

"You like that?" Scourge murmured, optics gleaming. Their mouths were so close together that the edges of his moustaches brushed Rodimus's lips as he spoke.

"Love it," Rodimus assured him. He reached his free hand up to Scourge's shoulder, fingertips circling the shuttered opening of what, in the tracker's altmode, would be one of the powerful vertical thrusters that kept his frame aloft. Scourge hissed softly at the touch, pleasure clouding like ink in water through the smoky darkness of his aura. "How about this?"

"...not complaining," Scourge said, with too much huskiness in his voice for the understatement in his words. He reset his vocaliser, a quick cough of static, and then lowered his head to nudge under Rodimus's jaw.

"Ohh..." Rodimus eagerly tipped his head back, baring his throat to Scourge's glossa and clutching at his shoulder. "Yeah... oh, there..." He tugged against Scourge's grip on his other hand, wanting to touch - Scourge let him go, and Rodimus immediately reached to run the backs of his knuckles over the inside surface of Scourge's wing.

Which got him a shudder and a muffled groan that resonated wonderfully through the taut cables of his throat, and Scourge's claws skidding with a brief screech of metal-on-metal down his side. Rodimus gasped and kept doing exactly what he was doing, loving the way it made his friend press closer against him and the hot-dark wash of charged power and _pleasure_ that flooded Scourge's aura in response. Oh, Primus, this was fun; making out like this in the dark with half of Rodimus's own faction within shouting distance and not even knowing that there was an enemy in their midst and that that enemy was in the middle of despoiling their Prime _right now_... Rodimus _knew_ he shouldn't be turned on by that, but then again, dammit, he'd never asked to be Prime anyway. The very least the universe could do was let him have a _bit_ of fun with it.

Although if the fun was going to continue then he needed to keep his voice down, which got suddenly more difficult as Scourge shifted his weight and moved down Rodimus's frame, licking over his collar and down onto his chestplate. Rodimus's sensornets sparked in delight as Scourge's glossa traced the edges of his flame decals, teasing, trailing liquid-black static. "Oh, Primus..."

"More?" Scourge asked, softly.

His claws had found the hidden cover on Rodimus's midsection, the one that concealed his interface cables and ports, and Rodimus _whined_ as that needle-sharp touch teased at his tightly-closed panel seams. The claws themselves were delicious enough, but with Scourge's skill at channelling energy through them, they were the best kind of torture. His interface banks sizzled with charge, half his own and half Scourge's dripping into him, and he squirmed with desperate desire. "Ahh... hhh... okay, yes, whatever you're going to do, _please_ do it!"

Scourge laughed quietly, his voice low and rough, the vibration of his engines teasing through Rodimus's frame and caressing him right the way to his struts. "All right," he murmured. "Open up for me."

The click of the panel latch giving way followed quickly enough in the wake of the words to make Rodimus's fields briefly flush hot with shame. The embarrassment only lasted a second or two, though, because that was all it took before Scourge's fingertips were _under_ that panel and razor claws were tracing the edges of his open ports and Rodimus shuddered in relief and delight. "Hhh... _Scourge...!_ "

"Shh," the tracker whispered, and Rodimus could hear his grin. He shifted lower, licking and kissing his way down over Rodimus's armour.

Scourge, like the rest of his triad, didn't have anything in his systems that directly corresponded with what Rodimus had under that panel. While interfacing for pleasure and intimacy was a default function among most Cybertronians, and dedicated hardware for it was normal, Unicron had decided it was a feature that his Herald and subordinate creations could do without. Rodimus vividly remembered finding that out, his first time with Galvatron. His spark had dropped in dismay as he blurted out, "So wait, how do you-?"

And Galvatron had laughed and pulled him close and _shown_ him how, and the dismay had lasted all of ten seconds before being replaced by shameless bliss. The Unicronians' interfacing style was all touch and fieldplay and putting fingers and glossae in places Rodimus had never known you were even allowed to put them, and he'd been hooked on it from the moment he first tried it. But that didn't change the fact that his own systems _did_ have the dedicated hardware, and his charge tended to get caught there whether he wanted it to or not.

Which was why he arched up and nearly screamed when Scourge's beard brushed against his open panel and then the slender, pointed tip of the tracker's glossa joined those teasing claws underneath it. He clamped down on his vocaliser, knowing the race of his engine and the shudder of his frame against Scourge's would be more than eloquent enough, and before he'd thought about what he was doing his hand was curled around the back of Scourge's helm, his wrist guns scuffing against the edge of Scourge's wing as he reached past it, pulling his lover closer into him. _Yes oh Primus yes please-!_

He felt rather than heard Scourge laugh quietly at his reaction. Scourge's other hand curled firmly over his hip, holding him to the berth, and Rodimus reached down and covered his fingers with his own free hand and clung tight. He tried to lie back and relax, dimming his optics in ecstasy as Scourge went on teasing him, licking criss-cross patterns over his ports and nipping at the exposed tips of his connector leads. Oh _wow_ that felt _wonderful_ , and the feedback from it was going _straight_ to his engine and he felt warm all over as his capacitor banks flooded with charge...

...honestly, he felt kind of selfish just lying here and letting this happen. "Mmmh... Scourge?"

The tracker lifted his head immediately, looking up at Rodimus with his optics glowing dim crimson. He turned his hand where it lay on Rodimus's hip, curling their fingers together. "What?"

Rodimus groaned as his interfacing software pinged a plaintive _why'd you make him stop?_ alert to his processor. His fingers flexed on the metal of Scourge's helm. "Don't take this the wrong way, because I promise I'm loving it," he said breathlessly, "but honestly - are _you_ getting anything out of this?"

Scourge relaxed, and just for a moment there was a sparkle of wicked light in his optics that made him look every inch as deliciously evil as Galvatron or Cyclonus ever could - Rodimus grinned at that, even as he shivered in appreciation of it. "Tracker senses, remember?" Scourge tapped a clawtip against his temple. "At this range I can practically taste what you're feeling." He nuzzled against Rodimus's open ports again and Rodimus gasped, twitching up into the touch. "...like that," Scourge said with a chuckle. "Believe me, this works for me."

Rodimus moaned. "Okay," he panted. "As long as you're having a good time down there - _hhh_ , Scourge!" His lover had started licking shadow-dark charge into his aching array again and it was taking all the willpower Rodimus had left just to keep his voice down, _oh Primus that felt good..._

" _Mmm._ " The tracker's reply was a husky, muffled growl that sent glorious shivers of resonance through Rodimus's circuits. //I love when you say my name like that,// he added - over the radio, in a whisper, as though he was afraid to be caught confessing that.

Rodimus choked on static, desperately locking his vocaliser, and hastily switched to radio in turn. //If you'd picked somewhere with thicker walls to do this I'd be screaming it,// he managed sincerely. //That's so good, oh, oh, _Scourge please..._ //

//I've got you.// Scourge licked slowly, teasingly around the rim of Rodimus's primary input port - and then pushed his glossa-tip in as deep as it would go, pouring his own charge through the slick brushed-steel length of his glossa and into systems that were _desperate_ to take it. The connection wasn't perfect, tiny sparks and short-outs crackling in the flow of energy, but somehow that only added to the sensation. Rodimus arched up, gasping, clinging to his friend's steadying grip, and Scourge's claws dug affectionately into the back of his hand and the tiny, sharp, sweet sensation of voidforged metal piercing his plating on top of everything else was _enough_.

//Going to-// Rodimus began raggedly. And that was as far as he got before he _did_ , interlocks giving way and capacitor banks flashing over in a glorious rush of pleasure and released charge that blazed in the darkness around them like a halo of fire. Blue and golden ribbons of lightning arced from his plating to the earth bars at the head of the berth - and over Scourge, too, where his frame was pressed against Rodimus's.

And Scourge tensed and gasped - and overloaded in turn and Rodimus hadn't even _touched_ him, not really, and oh _wow_ that was hot. The tracker shuddered, his face still hidden against Rodimus's side, spilled charge sheeting over his wings in a cascade of liquid-blue light laced with streamers of black static. Rodimus shivered, loving the way his friend's energies felt against his own still-tingling plating, like being wrapped in smoke and shadows and dark wings... "Hhh... Scourge?"

" _Mmmh._ " Scourge relaxed, raised his head, and gave Rodimus a crooked grin. "Told you this worked for me," he said, looking almost shamefaced at how easily he'd gone off the edge. "Are you all right?"

"I'm great, that was fantastic... come here? Please?" He tugged on Scourge's hand.

Scourge crawled back up the berth to lie beside him and half on top of him, propped up on his elbow with his leg hooked over Rodimus's thigh. He had to trail one wing off the side of the berth to fit but he furled the other across Rodimus, casting a midnight-dark shadow over the two of them. The space beneath it and between them was lit only by the glow of their optics, innocent Autobot blue and Decepticon crimson, sketching their faces in mingled light as Scourge lowered his head to nuzzle gently at Rodimus. "I'm starting to think I should sneak into your quarters more often," he said wryly.

"Mmmmm." Rodimus tilted his head up and kissed him. "Well, apparently it's not like I can stop you."

Scourge laughed, and kissed him back.


	4. Clothed - Galvatron/Cyclonus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galvatron/Cyclonus, for the prompt "Clothed or half-dressed". Original post [here](https://of-fire-and-light.tumblr.com/post/180827018847/im-doing-a-30-day-porn-challenge-for-december). (Warnings: Kind of rough sex I guess, but consensual and honestly pretty vanilla for the pairing. Tactile interfacing, rating M.)
> 
> (Additional notes: I almost cheated and made this a TFs-as-humans fic just to keep things simple, but then I got a couple of enthusiastic votes from certain people for doing it the hard way. ;) So, here we go - from robots in disguise to robots in formal wear, because why not. This is in continuity with and a prequel to [“There’s Always A Wall When You Need One”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15707484). Steelsmith Radiant belongs to [Gemma_Inkyboots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemma_Inkyboots) and appears here with permission - thank you sis!)

"Cyclonus! What do you think?"

Cyclonus turned at the sound of Galvatron's voice, and whatever he might have said died in his vocaliser. He hoped the drop of his jaw and the burst of wonder and awe that flashed through his aura would suffice for the moment it took him to summon a verbal response. He'd known that Galvatron had been making preparations of his own for this... _event_ that the four of them were attending - Cyclonus himself had not as yet, being somewhat doubtful as to what was expected or appropriate as far as their appearances went. _Clothing_ , after all, was for organics and civilians. War machines did not wear formal dress.

Looking at his lord now, he revised his opinion entirely and without compunction.

Leadvelvet was the thickest and densest fabric that Cybertron's steelsmiths could forge, even its lightest gauge a burden on an ordinary civilian frame. What Galvatron was wearing was surely the heaviest gauge of leadvelvet in history; a great sheaf of it that swept from his shoulders to his shins, pinned with golden magnetic clamps and falling in an asymmetric cascade over his left arm and side, leaving his right hand and the great cannon free and untrammelled. The supple folds of the fabric draped sensually over his frame and flared out under their own weight as he moved, seemingly no hindrance at all to his strength and grace, and the _colour_...

Cyclonus realised belatedly that several of his autonomic systems had stalled, and hastily rebooted them. The cape was white, but not _merely_ white. It glittered like starlight drawn through a steelsmith's die; sparkled like a snowfield, like nitrogen frost on the night side of the universe. The brightness of it should have been tawdry and yet somehow, against Galvatron's own imperial amethyst and royal gold, it simply looked _fitting_. Unicron's apostate Herald blazed like he was haloed in shattered diamonds, and Cyclonus nearly folded to his knees at the sight.

"...magnificent, mighty Galvatron," he breathed, realising that Galvatron was still watching him - with a delighted expression at his dumbstruck response. "You look..." Words fell short, they truly did. "Majestic." He ventured nearer, barely even aware that he was reaching out his hand.

"Of course I do!" Galvatron was clearly in the best possible mood, and he stepped easily closer to Cyclonus and swept up a handful of the cape to hold it out for his lieutenant's inspection. Cyclonus dared to run reverent fingers over it, his sensornets shivering - the brushed filaments felt unimaginably sleek and tactile, _luxurious_ in a way that nothing they had on Charr was. "Isn't it wonderful? I could get used to this!"

Cyclonus looked up, his spark lifting to see the glint of delight in Galvatron's optics. "Truly it is, my lord."

He wasn't sure he could ever get used to _seeing_ Galvatron like this, not without his knee servos going weak, but he decided to keep that thought safely to himself.

***

A couple of weeks later and he'd _had_ to get used to it; because not only was Galvatron still wearing the cape whenever the whim took him, but Cyclonus and Scourge had been dispatched to Cybertron to pay their own visits to Steelsmith Radiant of Vos, who currently appeared to stand higher in Galvatron's favour than anyone outside of his own triad and Rodimus Prime. Having met her, Cyclonus could see why. Radiant was aptly named, projecting a joie de vivre and ferocious enthusiasm that made her appear almost as magnificently volatile as Galvatron himself - and that aside, her talents, and endurance, were remarkable. Watching her standing at her forge, deftly drawing white-hot steel bare-handed through a silksmith's die and basking with every appearance of ease in temperatures that were closer to Galvatron's idea of comfortable than any normal person's, had been an edifying spectacle.

She'd sent them away after a couple of days' work with outfits of their own, designed around their frames with as much grace and fluency as she'd styled Galvatron's grand cape. Cyclonus was still adjusting to wearing the twilight-coloured leadvelvet wing banners she had made for him, but he couldn't deny that they were beautiful, and the fabric felt wonderful when it accidentally brushed against his plating. His reflection when he caught sight of it looked positively noble, though more understated by far than Galvatron's splendour. Which, of course, was as it should be. It mattered to Cyclonus that he look worthy of his lord, but he had no ambition at all to compete with him. If he were to shine, let it be with Galvatron's glory reflected, not with any light of his own.

And Galvatron _would_ shine brightest of all of them, because as part of the final preparations for the ball, Cyclonus had taken on the task of doing his detailing for him. Most of the time, none of the Unicronians cared to expend the time and effort required for lacquer and polish. Their autorepairs took care of any necessary paint corrections, and they spent too much time in battle and smoke and dust to make it worth their while to apply superficial finishes that would last all of five minutes before they got scorched by a laser bolt or burned off in a fast orbital re-entry. But _this_ time, just this once, it was worth it.

In truth, of all the many duties Cyclonus performed for his lord, this was one of his very favourites. It was so rare that Galvatron would hold still and permit himself to be _touched_ at all, let alone with the kind of lingering attention that was required to apply hardcoat glaze and then buff it to a shine with wax and polish. To Cyclonus it felt like worship to run his hands and his gaze over every inch of Galvatron's frame like this, to be granted the honour of attempting to improve on perfection. He was quietly proud that the final result generally _was_ a significant improvement, even over and above the glory that was Galvatron on any ordinary day.

Kneeling at his lord's feet now, he looked up as he drew back from buffing the final layer of polish over Galvatron's boot, and his engines briefly hitched as he let his gaze track upwards. Galvatron's white and silver and violet paint shone like a mirror, and the barrel of his cannon glowed flawless molten gold. He had already donned the crystal-white cape while he was waiting for Cyclonus to finish with the polish, and its heavy folds fell and shimmered around him like a starfield veiled in nebular dust; and in all of this majesty, still the brightest thing about him was the playful flare of crimson light in his optics and the flash of his grin as he looked down at Cyclonus in amusement. "Satisfied finally?" he demanded. "My joints are going to seize up if you make me stand here much longer!"

Cyclonus ducked his head, apologetic but smiling. He knew full well when Galvatron was teasing him. "Done, my lord," he confirmed. "Unless you require anything further of me?"

"Is there anything left you _could_ do?" Galvatron retorted, but his gaze was flicking distractedly between Cyclonus's face and his own frame, and Cyclonus knew him well enough to tell that he was sincerely delighted. Cyclonus could have stayed where he was, kneeling at his lord's feet and admiring him, for eternity; but Galvatron was right, there was simply nothing left to do. The point had been reached where perfection could no longer be improved upon by even Cyclonus's dedication and, with a final wistful look up, he shifted to rise to his feet.

As he moved, seemingly quite by chance, Galvatron half-turned and flicked the folds of his cape with his left hand, shrugging them out of his way. The leadvelvet swung outwards in a cascade of frostfall glitter, and the edge of it clipped hard against Cyclonus's wing.

He gasped at the sensation before he could stop himself. The sheer weight of the fabric made even that glancing impact on his sensitive flight surfaces feel like a blow, and his sensornets startled alert - just in time to absorb the full effect as the edge of the cape slid back, its filaments caressing his plating and sending shivers racing through him. Kneeling as he was at Galvatron's feet, all his defences lowered as far as they could ever go, he didn't manage to keep that sudden, brief burst of _pleasure_ from spilling over into his energy fields. _Oh-!_

And Galvatron startled in turn and looked down at him. "Cyclonus?!"

"N-nothing, mighty Galvatron, I-"

"Cy _clonus_..." Galvatron's voice held a singsong edge of warning, even though he was still smiling, and Cyclonus froze, tilting his head up to bare his throat in submission. Lying to his lord was never a good idea, but he didn't know what the words _were_ for the truth right now-

Galvatron caught a fold of his cape around his fist, reached out with it, and deliberately dragged the leadvelvet against the flat of Cyclonus's wing.

" _Hhh-!_ " He couldn't hold back that gasp or the shockwave of response that pulsed through his aura, and he didn't think Galvatron had wanted him to. He blinked up at Galvatron, dizzy with sensation and _want_ and the sudden tension in the air between them. "My lord-?!"

There was a pause that could have been measured in microseconds before Galvatron's optics flashed with heat, echoed by a wicked grin. The warlord dropped to one knee, his weight crashing down with reckless disregard for his newly-pristine hardcoat, and he reached out, grabbed Cyclonus and pulled him into his arms. His aura scorched over Cyclonus's plating as their frames touched, all hot-gold and plasma fire, and Cyclonus let out a small, desperate sound and buckled into his embrace.

And then Galvatron was touching him in earnest, sweeping his hand across the flat of Cyclonus's already quivering wing, and Cyclonus moaned in shaking surrender. The raw power that bled from Galvatron's fingertips was enough to pull a wash of induced current through the circuitry embedded in his flight surfaces, like a molten echo of Galvatron's energy signature running under his own plating, and it was utterly intoxicating and he arched up in a desperate, wordless plea for _more_. Any concerns of time or place, of schedules or preparations or the likely state of their finery and finishes if this continued, melted to nothingness in the ecstatic fire of his lord's caress. None of it was truly important anyway. His loyalty and service to Galvatron came before all else - and if Galvatron wanted _this_ of him, _here, now_ , then the entire rest of the galaxy could wait.

"Cyclonus..."

Galvatron's voice was a fierce, playful whisper against his audial, and Cyclonus shivered in rapture. "Oh - Galvatron, my lord..." He turned his head, half-blind with the blaze of Galvatron's aura, nuzzling at his lord's mouth in supplication.

He received his reward in the form of a searing kiss that would have had his knees giving way if he hadn't been down on them already, and he made a sound that he would have been ashamed of in anyone else's presence as he opened his mouth eagerly and tilted his head to give Galvatron better access to him. He reached out; his right hand found its way under the heavy folds of Galvatron's cape, sliding up the warlord's back, and Cyclonus shuddered as the inner lining of the leadvelvet dragged over the edge of his forearm stabiliser blade in a silken, liquid caress.

His other hand was on Galvatron's belt strip, clenching there with a roughness that was mostly accidental. Galvatron made an eager, approving sound against his mouth and Cyclonus took the hint and dug his fingers in harder, finally catching up enough to reciprocate properly and pouring his own charge through his fingertips and into the seams of Galvatron's armour to sizzle against the heated circuitry beneath. Galvatron fairly purred at the sensation, arching his back luxuriously and sliding his hand further around Cyclonus's back to pull him in even closer.

The edges of their plating scraped together with a battlefield screech of metal; Cyclonus gasped through the kiss as the sharp mid-edge of Galvatron's chestplate scored his own paint down to bare steel, but it was anything but a protest. The pain only heightened the thrill of this, of being crushed against the frame of the most powerful destructive force in the universe and held here like he was something _precious_ , and he arched up and poured everything he had into returning Galvatron's kiss and his fierce caresses. His engines raced as he fought to keep up his side of the impromptu circuit between them, the spiralling, soaring rise of charge and heat and fire and _connection_ that had him forgetting where he ended and Galvatron began.

Not that that mattered - he was overborne anyway, engulfed in his lord's greater power. All of this was happening faster than he could process it coherently. Galvatron's knee shoved between his, Galvatron's thigh braced hard against the underside of his pelvic strip and hitching him half off the ground as though he weighed nothing; Galvatron's right hand on his chestplate, pouring power into him as close as Galvatron could get to his lasercore and his spark and making Cyclonus's systems fizzle and glitch out in an ion-storm glitter of disorientation and pleasure and white static across his visual displays. His hand gripping at the base of Galvatron's tailsight, making Galvatron growl and push back hard into the touch; his mouth on the barrel of Galvatron's cannon, the tight-woven energy fields that sheathed the great weapon crackling like lightning against his glossa with the taste of power and pain and the ultimate potential for destruction. All Cyclonus could do was to take everything he could endure and give everything he had in return, and his spark sang with ecstasy at every wild second of it.

Although his subjective perception of time had been one of the first things to stop working properly, it was over quickly by their standards. Cyclonus realised distantly and belatedly that this was all, in a sense, _his_ fault - all that careful attention with hardcoat brushes and polishing cloths and his own unthinkingly worshipful touches must have pushed Galvatron's charge levels higher than he had realised, and then that one otherwise-trivial accident with the leadvelvet cape had been the final trigger for... this. Not that Cyclonus had any complaints to make; and least of all when, somewhere in the midst of this storm of pleasure and desire, Galvatron gripped his helm and pulled his head back and kissed him hard enough to choke him. The Herald's aura burned almost white hot, flooding Cyclonus's perceptions with light and heat and _him_ , and Cyclonus's self-control finally gave way and he overloaded with a cry that was lost against Galvatron's lips. Silver lightning arced from his own plating to his lord's, his atmospheric sensors suddenly fizzing with ozone and ionised nitrogen as the very air disintegrated in surrender to the fury of their passion.

Galvatron shuddered and tensed in his arms with a snarl of triumph; and then his overload hit in turn, and the air around them _blazed_. The white leadvelvet cape, conductive as it was, briefly became a rippling aurora drape of golden light and spilled charge wrapped half around them both, and Cyclonus, still dazed from the rush of his own release, momentarily lost all sense of place and time and could only cling tight as he was drenched in fire and pleasure all over again. " _Oh!_ My lord - please - _Galvatron!_ "

Silence, punctuated by a last few crackles of stray charge and the small guttering sound of one of Cyclonus's abandoned polishing rags burning itself out, fell. Cyclonus rebooted his optics, sucked a deep breath of air through his intakes, and looked up.

Galvatron was already watching him, optics gleaming a deep, satisfied crimson. There was a grin curling his mouth, temporarily crooked where Cyclonus had bitten at his lip and left a dent that Galvatron's self-repairs were smoothing out even as Cyclonus looked at him. "There!" he said, sounding thoroughly pleased with himself and the universe in general. "Better, Cyclonus?"

 _Better than what_ was an irrelevant question. Getting _that_ from Galvatron was automatically better than just about _anything_. " _Hhh_ \- yes, my lord. Thank you." He reached up, brushed his fingers worshipfully against the side of Galvatron's helm. "...and you?" he asked, softly.

"Mmm, definitely." There was a husky, roughened edge to Galvatron's voice that it never held except at moments like this, and hearing it now made Cyclonus secretly melt all over again. " _This_ was interesting, though," he added, his mercurial attention already half distracted as he turned his head and swept up a handful of his cape to examine. "I didn't realise how well this stuff would soak charge!"

Cyclonus blinked as he remembered the white fabric shimmering golden, _molten_ with the overspill of Galvatron's power. Surely what was left of it should be smelted rags, and yet... "Not even scorched, my lord." He reached out and ran the sparkling weight of the leadvelvet over his hand for a moment, in outright wonder at the craftsmechship that had gone into creating something that would stand up to _that_. "Your finish, though..." Galvatron's gleaming lacquer was scarred with fractal charge-burns that radiated from the plating over his lasercore and twined around the length of his cannon, scuffed back to bare paint and even a few scrapes of raw steel where Cyclonus's fingers had gripped hardest. _That_ wouldn't do for a formal event at all.

"Bah!" Galvatron shook his head, laughingly dismissing his lieutenant's concern. "Just do it again, then!"

"As you will, mighty Galvatron." Cyclonus bowed to his lord; but it was more than half to hide his smile.


	5. Fingering - Galvatron/Dis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galvatron/ _Dis_ , for the prompt "Fingering". Original post [here](https://of-fire-and-light.tumblr.com/post/180880434427/im-doing-a-30-day-porn-challenge-for-december). (Warnings: gun kink and destruction fetishising like _whoa_. Not-exactly-sexual tactile-style interfacing, rated PG-13.)
> 
> (Additional notes: I know that the canonical name for the Unicronian capital ship is now _Revenge_ , but that name was first revealed in 2009 and I've been RPing these guys since 2005. I'm not changing a semi-original character I love just because I got jossed by a background sourcebook that I haven’t even read, so it's still the _Dis_ to me. I have no canonical evidence at all for it being in any way sentient, this is all headcanon; also, I am playing fast and loose with the prompt and the porn here is very, very metaphorical. Ahem.)

" _...and this shall be your ship._ "

For all that Galvatron could never let go of his hate for his creator, he knew deep down that he would always be bound to acknowledge Unicron's generosity. The glory and the power of his own frame was enough of a gift in itself; but over and above that, there was his precious, perfect Cyclonus, forged for his hand like a mastercrafted weapon. There was Scourge, with all his unique abilities and hidden talents, one of a kind despite his half a dozen clones.

And then there was _that ship_. The fastest, most powerful warship in the galaxy, a void-violet nightmare that regarded the laws of any sane physics as little more than guidelines. A fully equipped mobile battle station, capable of supporting the Herald’s personal strike force indefinitely, armed with enough artillery to level a planet and armoured to withstand the return fire into the bargain - and that barely scratched the surface of what it was and what it could do. Even if Unicron had granted it to Galvatron for entirely selfish reasons of his own, the ship itself was a gift worthy of an emperor.

It had not had a name, when he first set his boots atop its prow as his new-forged warfleet set course away from their master in search of the Autobot survivors. That far, at least, Galvatron had been free to stake his own claim on it. In hindsight - insofar as hindsight was something he ever troubled himself with - he couldn't recall quite where the inspiration had come from, but the name he had chosen to write into that waiting blank space in the warship's code was _Dis_.

Dis, fortress of the underworld. It had seemed fitting at the time. It still did, despite the fall of the dark god they had all served in the beginning - the mighty warship was _Galvatron's_ fortress and capital now, and he still instinctively thought of it as _home_. Charr was the Decepticon empire's nominal throneworld, but Galvatron's true throne was the pilot's chair of the _Dis_.

Like all the rest of Unicron's gifts, the _Dis_ showed in a hundred ways both great and small that it had been made for _him_. That chair fitted him and him alone, scaled perfectly to his frame and height. The controls were laid out exactly where his hands would most naturally fall, the console screens were ranked precisely in his line of sight. He could pilot the behemoth ship single-handedly as easily as he could fly Cyclonus, and with no less assurance that it would do anything he asked of it.

And then there was the matter of the control systems. The _Dis'_ primary flight controls were one thing: they followed a roughly standard layout, throttle and vector thrust controls and gunnery board all placed where any Decepticon would expect to find them. In theory, any Cybertronian pilot with the correct vessel class training could fly the Unicronian capital ship if they had to.

In reality, such a hypothetical usurper would be privy to less than a tenth of what the _Dis_ really was and what it could do. The ship's hidden depths were concealed beneath a simple pane of obsidian-dark crystal set into the main console; a touchpad interface, but one that would respond only to Galvatron's hand or that of one of his lieutenants. Tiny, hidden link circuits in their fingertips activated that panel on contact - to anyone else, it was, and would remain, nothing but plain black glass.

The _Dis_ had been waiting in its endless guardian orbit above Charr for a long time. In their desperately straitened circumstances the Decepticons had to prioritise fuelling themselves above fuelling a gigantic warship, and so it hung like an iron ghost above the Decepticon base, its menacing silhouette overshadowing the troops it protected. However, the fact that it was no longer free to lay the stars to waste did not mean that it had been forgotten.

Galvatron's steps rang muted echoes on the deckplates as he crossed from the bridge doors to his command chair. The shipboard lights were dimmed, only hints of lightwire illumination and the glow of console standby indicators competing with the faint starlight that filtered through the forward viewscreen. Silence clung heavy and thick in the shadowed air, the stillness of something not quite sleeping. _Waiting._

Galvatron took his seat at the command console, looking out at the starscape beyond. His right hand came to rest on the touchpad, his fingers flexing against its mirror-smooth surface. " _Dis_?"

A thrum of power vibrated subtly through the walls around him and the deck beneath his feet. Deep beneath the dark glass, patterns of ethereal colour bloomed in slow-moving, swift-fading swirls that tracked the passage of his fingertips like iron filings following a magnet.

~~ _you command, warmaster?_ ~~

The voice was cool and dark as the void of space, and it did not reach his processor by way of his audials. Galvatron had never been able to fathom exactly _how_ the ship communicated - it felt like a cross between radio and telepathy. The words simply found their way into his thoughts, without his having any clear evidence of how they got there.

He was equally unsure as to where and how the _Dis_ maintained its seeming awareness. It had no true spark, of that much he was certain, but while its AI was vastly sophisticated, no mere AI could have accounted for the degree of emotion, of _connection_ , that he knew it to be capable of. The _Dis_ as an entity was simply _there_ , a shadow sentience threaded through the warship's systems. An unseen presence that watched from the walls and ran in the myriad circuits and conduits behind them.

And wrapped itself like a protective cloak around its rightful crew whenever they were close enough for it to reach them. Galvatron smiled, leaning back a little as he relaxed into the ship's silk-and-ice touch on his thoughts. "Just checking on you!" His fingertips traced half-patterns on the touchpad, and colours like the pulse of distant nebulae shimmered in their wake.

~~ _power level twenty-two-point-six-four percent. power-down protocols in force, primary systems disengaged._ ~~ A pause followed. ~~ _full report?_ ~~

"No need, but... engage command interface link." Two fingers pressed to the touchpad just _so_ , a burst of star-blue light answering them from the depths of the glass.

~~ _by your will._ ~~

The light bloomed brighter, rippling under his touch, and the ship _opened_ itself to him. Data pathways unlocked and synchronised, current pulsing from the tiny static-generators in Galvatron's fingertips to the conductive glass of the touchpad, absorbed and then returned by the _Dis'_ hidden systems. Automatic handshake protocols booted and self-executed in millisecond-brief flickers.

~~ _confirmed. link engaged._ ~~

Galvatron was still in his own body, seeing through his own optics, looking out at the stellar gulf beyond the viewscreen; but overlaid on his perceptions was another reality altogether. The world around him was redrawn in wireframe light. Additional sensory feeds hooked themselves to his processor, giving him the taste of deep space on meteor-scarred armour thicker even than his, the soundless hiss of background stellar radiation whispering in detectors attuned far differently to his own. The _Dis'_ shadowy presence drew him in, coiled itself faithfully around him, offered itself to him wholly and gladly. Its vast and complex systems were an extension of his own; he could see and feel everything it was capable of, learn anything it knew with a single thought. He could ignore the entire board of buttons, switches and levers laid out in front of him, if he wished - with the touchpad and the command interface fully engaged, he had every system in the ship literally at his fingertips.

The abyssal depths of the ship's awareness rippled as he reached out into them, smoke-dark crystal sparkling with indigo and emerald swirls of light where his touch traced in an idle, affectionate caress. The _Dis'_ response was wordless; a black-velvet brush of acknowledgement to the inside of his cranial cavity, a subtle flicker of charge through the touchpad glass that tingled in his fingertips. The image in his mind was of a vast, predatory beast lowering its head to him, arching luxuriously into his hand.

Galvatron smiled. His fingers curled and scuffed lightly against the glass.

That particular gesture-glyph activated the _Dis'_ weapon arrays: the massive twin-linked prow guns, the torpedo banks and moleculon missile carriers. Far above him in the vast bulk of the warship's main hull, lightning flickered the length of mile-long power conduits as systems booted up and self-checked. The deck beneath him shuddered and the deep background pulse of idling engines shifted pitch to something more urgent, more tangibly _awake_. A mirrored flicker of power ran through Galvatron's own systems, target locks hunting briefly across his visual field, the great capacitor banks that fed his cannon tingling with a momentary flare of sympathetic charge. There was no barrier between the ship's emotions and his own - their shared awareness was taut with the same instincts, the same _want_. _Give us something to destroy!_

They remembered, together. How it felt to hunt and kill, the white-hot glory of a god's own power poured through their guns; the triumph of soaring through a newborn debris field and feeling the bite of sparks on armourplate as the burning fragments of a defeated foe made a last, impotent bid to be avenged. The _Dis'_ bloodlust was a darker thing than Galvatron's - colder and more measured, but no less terrible once awakened. The warship's guns thrummed with coiling-hot energy, longing for release; and in the glittering virtual reality of the command interface Galvatron scanned the void around them through the _Dis'_ thousand electric eyes, looking halfway across the universe for _something_ to slake that desire...!

Charr did not have much of a solar system to its credit. A burned-out sun that barely showed brighter than any other star in its sky, no moons, and only a couple of sibling worlds as empty as itself. A narrow belt of asteroids; small, sparse, and barren of natural resources unless you had a particular need for low-quality igneous rock.

And a few stray eccentrics, errant rocks pulled from their rightful path by some collision or accident of gravity. One such was tumbling inbound even now from the far reaches of Charr's system, crossing the orbital paths of the stable worlds and the asteroid belt, skittering through space as though with a will of its own. Galvatron's optics narrowed as he and the _Dis_ calculated its trajectory between them. It had skewed off again as it passed the next planet out, and it now had an over ninety-eight percent chance of hitting Charr hard enough to leave a sizeable dent.

That would hardly be convenient to the Decepticons. Galvatron grinned. "Shall we?" he murmured.

~~ _calculating firing solution,_ ~~ was the _Dis'_ laconic reply. ~~ _...calculation complete._ ~~ The datalink through the touchpad routed the ship's own target locks to Galvatron's optical display, a glowing green reticule tracking the rogue asteroid as it hurtled towards them. ~~ _at your pleasure, warmaster._ ~~

He could have fired the guns with a gesture and a thought, but some things were better done the old-fashioned way. Galvatron reached over with his other hand, and touched the manual control for the prow lasers.

Twin bolts seared across the dark, and Galvatron felt the _Dis_ shudder around him and arched his back in mind-linked ecstasy as the ship's release washed over him. His own recoil compensators triggered involuntarily, sending a jolt through his frame, as his processor briefly lost track of whose body and whose guns were whose. _Yes-!_

On the far side of Charr, a million-mile shot away, the paired laser blasts converged and the asteroid exploded in a brief, bright shower of debris. Nothing more than a flash in the void, most likely missed by all optics but theirs, but the _Dis'_ systems - and Galvatron's - still had the pleasure of flagging it as a kill. Galvatron's fist came down on the edge of the console with a triumphant crash. " _Hah!_ Perfect!"

The _Dis'_ awareness nudged against his, a shadowy, velvet coil of satisfaction. ~~ _target destroyed._ ~~

"I know, I saw it!" Galvatron retorted, proud. "Well done!"

~~ _by your will and your hand._ ~~ The _Dis_ was wholly content to cede the glory to its liegelord.

Galvatron laughed in fond approbation. Amethyst fingertips caressed black glass, and three miles of voidforged iron shivered in delight.


	6. 69 - Rodimus Prime/Cyclonus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rodimus Prime/Cyclonus, for the prompt "69". Original post [here](https://of-fire-and-light.tumblr.com/post/180873019507/im-doing-a-30-day-porn-challenge-for-december). (Warnings: truce’verse, OT3+1 so technically polyamory, though there's minimal reference to that here. Discussion of organic sex, very minor tactile interfacing, rated PG-13.)
> 
> (Additional notes: This is arguably a bit of a cheat fill. I promised myself after day 4 that I wasn’t going to do either sticky interfacing or TFs-as-humans for any of these fics, no matter how much of a challenge it is to write them with purely mechanical characters. This prompt was the point where I really couldn’t figure out how to do it, so in lieu of straight-up porn, here’s Cyclonus and Roddy not being able to figure out how to do it either.)

"Rodimus?"

"Mm?

"Earth cultural question," Cyclonus said, frowning at the datapad in his hand. "Why are humans so fascinated by the number sixty-nine?"

" _-khhhk._ " Rodimus choked on static and wheezed through his vents as he tried not to laugh as hard as the words deserved. Cyclonus, of all people, couldn't possibly be trolling him and it wouldn't be fair to dissolve in snickering in response to what was almost certainly a genuinely innocent question. "Uh. Mind if I ask why you're asking?"

"In the open comment sections of Earth's internet, that number appears in user identifiers so often that it's a statistical anomaly. I was merely curious as to why."

...yup, innocent question. Rodimus subvocalised a groan, wondering how to answer it without invoking that other human concept known as "TMI". "It's, uhhh... a slang term for an organic interfacing practice," he managed, making a Primeful effort to keep his voice steady. "Humans get this whole huge kick out of referencing 'facing without actually mentioning it... sorry, that's probably not the answer you were hoping for, is it?"

Cyclonus's optics had gone wide, and he carefully put the datapad down and recoiled from it somewhat. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid so." He was still trying not to laugh. "Well, as serious as I can be. It's kinda a ridiculous thing."

Cyclonus blinked at him. "Ridiculous indeed. Do humans really obsess about interfacing that much?"

"...honestly? Yup." Rodimus was more or less managing a straight face by now, at least. "I guess they have to think about it a lot since it's how they make more humans, but... yeah, compared to even Autobots, humans think about 'facing _all the time_." He'd discovered since the truce that there was already a cultural gap between Autobots and Decepticons when it came to interfacing, and certainly to discussing it in public. The gap to humans in turn was several orders of magnitude larger.

"And they number their interfacing protocols," Cyclonus said. "I shouldn't look into this any further, should I?"

"Well, they don't number _all_ of them," Rodimus said, laughing all over again at the mental images. "That one's kinda special. But no, no, you really shouldn't unless you want to have to do a stack scrub about two minutes from now." When he'd been Hot Rod, closely involved with Earth and its people, he'd researched the topic of human interfacing so he wouldn't be caught looking stupid if he somehow ended up having to discuss it. While he'd retained all the essential information there had been a whole pile of data, especially some of the images, that he'd had to delete from his memory banks just so they wouldn't come back to haunt him in recharge. Humans were _weird_.

"I'll restrain myself," Cyclonus said dryly. "Why do you know so much about this, anyway?"

"Interspecies relations - not like _that_ ," he added hastily, realising how that had sounded and feeling his aura flush hot. "You remember I was originally built as a cultural ambassador? I had to learn at least the basics of all the major human interests, so yeah, I wound up knowing more about how organics do it than most Cybertronians do."

Cyclonus simply nodded. Thankfully, except in certain very specific regards the Decepticon 2IC was one of the hardest people to embarrass that Rodimus had ever met. "Did you ever find yourself having to talk about it with humans?" he asked, idly curious.

"A few times. I do remember one woman who said she'd always wanted to 'face an alien and told me it was a shame I was twenty feet tall and didn't have the right components." He gave Cyclonus a wry grin. "If I'd known what I know now I'd have told her to think outside the box a little more."

Cyclonus acknowledged the unspoken implication with a half-smile. "She just... _said_ that to you?" By Decepticon standards, a remark like that would have been asking for a laser bolt to the face.

"Yeah, but there were a bunch of other humans there and they all cringed. They're not completely without standards. Some of them just... really don't have any filters." Rodimus shrugged.

"Clearly, if they put their berthroom preferences in their usernames," Cyclonus said. "What _is_ so special about this... sixty-nine, anyway?"

"Honestly? I think a lot more people just find it funny than actually do it. It's kind of complicated." Rodimus was trying not to laugh yet again. He'd seen pictures. It really was pretty funny.

"Rodimus, you're going to _have_ to explain this to me if you keep laughing like that." He made a face. "Though I'm sure I'll regret inquiring."

"Okay, okay. It's, uh..." He felt his aura go hot again. "Kind of like... double oral? Both partners with their mouths on the other's interfacing equipment at the same time. Only because humans keep their gear where they do, they have to be kind of-" he made an illustrative hand gesture "-and it looks-"

"-like one of the dominant Earth glyphs for the number sixty-nine," Cyclonus finished as comprehension dawned, with a groan and a hand to his optics. "That _is_ ridiculous."

"Well, you said you'd regret asking," Rodimus pointed out.

"I wasn't wrong."

There was a brief silence, and then Rodimus said, "You know, I'm not sure there's a Cybertronian equivalent of that position now I think about it."

Cyclonus looked at him in surprise. "There isn't?"

...of course. The Unicronians weren't especially familiar with standard mechanical interfacing practices, let alone organic ones - their hardware differentials made most of the more traditionally lewd acts Rodimus had heard of completely irrelevant to them. _Not that they haven't invented some amazing substitutes,_ a corner of his processor helpfully reminded him, and he blushed again. "I'm not sure it would work. Different frametypes have their gear in different places." He was overthinking this, he was _really_ overthinking this, _why_ was he overthinking this? Especially talking to Cyclonus of all mechs, who probably didn't even _want_ to think about this in depth. "I mean, uh, different distances from their mouths, so it wouldn't..." He wiggled his hands to demonstrate. "And even with identical builds, you might not be able to fit yourselves together like that..."

Cyclonus stared at him and then, somewhat to Rodimus's relief, started to laugh. "I see," he said. "You're right, it really wouldn't work." He frowned slightly. "I'd think it would be distracting, anyway. Trying to focus on pleasing your partner and having _that_ done to you at the same time..."

Well, if he wasn't the only person overthinking it, Rodimus was considerably more okay with having this conversation. He relaxed and nodded. "Yeah, but I think what humans like about it is that it's, mm, kind of equal? They have all kinds of cultural stuff about roles in 'facing and who's supposed to do what to who. I think it's about the only thing they have where you _can_ both be doing the same thing at the same time."

"So it's the equivalence that they value," Cyclonus said. "That makes some sense."

Rodimus nodded. "I guess we can manage _equivalence_ ," he said. "I mean, if that's the important thing..."

"You think so?"

"Well, yes... hold on a cycle." He rose to his feet and crossed to where his lover was sitting. "Uh, can I-?"

Cyclonus dipped his head just a little, with a brief quirk of a smile. "Of course."

Even though he knew how much Cyclonus trusted him, it was still always a thrill to get that kind of easy consent from the proud Unicronian lieutenant. Rodimus felt his spark glow happily as he climbed up, braced his knees either side of Cyclonus's hips on the bench, and let his aft come to rest on Cyclonus's thighs. Cyclonus leaned back a little to give him space, looking curiously up at him. "So for instance, if I do this..." Rodimus said, and ran his thumb carefully up the lower edge of Cyclonus's left wing.

Cyclonus tensed, subtly, the faintest shimmer of heat blooming in his fields and his optics darkening. He reached out and mirrored the touch along the edge of Rodimus's spoiler. "Like this?" he said softly.

...oh. Oh, that was nice. There was something about Cyclonus's energy signature that made even a gentle touch from him feel like a silver blade drawn delicately against Rodimus's sensornets, and it made him shiver all the way down his spinal strut and _ooh yes please_. "Yeah," he murmured, a little dazedly. "You see? Equivalence."

"But not exact," Cyclonus observed. He stroked along the other edge of Rodimus's spoiler, the upper edge, and Rodimus felt his capacitors tighten at the shimmer of sensation. "Even leaving aside the functional distinction, our alts map to our root modes differently. Trailing-edge on me is leading-edge on you, so structurally speaking, _this_ is the closer equivalent."

"And you're engineered for lift, whereas my spoiler is all for downforce," Rodimus said, rather breathlessly, and stroked the top edge of Cyclonus's wing in turn. Cyclonus let out a quiet sigh, his wing twitching reflexively into Rodimus's hand. "You're right, there's different kinds of equivalence. How do you decide which one is best?"

Cyclonus raised an optic ridge. "I suppose one method is to try them all," he said, leaning up towards Rodimus and curling his free hand around the back of his helm.

Rodimus grinned, shivered, and mirrored the gesture. "Did I ever mention you have the _best_ ideas?"

Just before their lips touched, and before Rodimus got completely distracted trying to work out how to kiss back _exactly_ the same way Cyclonus was kissing him, he heard Cyclonus laugh.


	7. Long-distance sex - Cyclonus/Scourge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cyclonus/Scourge, for the prompt "Long-distance sex". (Warnings: self-charging (aka masturbation) with a bit of implied Galvatron/Cyclonus referenced on the side, voyeurism, dirty talk, comm sex, and some fairly gentle verbal D/s and discipline kink between good friends. Tactile-style interfacing, rated M.)

He woke in darkness, with starlight glimmering above him.

Cyclonus lay still, letting his systems cycle through their ignition checks and self-scans. He was lying on the _Dis'_ recharge floor, draped from his midsection down in heavy insulating blankets, half-turned between his ventral and left sides. His left wing was folded back, his body propped in place by several of the thick foam blocks that allowed unyielding metal frames to rest comfortably on what would otherwise be an equally unyielding flat surface. The berthroom lights were dimmed to their lowest setting, barely competing with the starlight that poured through the armourglass ceiling overhead.

His system checks returned normal, aside from the usual amber fuel light that he chose as always to ignore. If it wasn't red it didn't matter. His strategic protocols flicked through current known data, orienting him relative to time, place, companions and duty.

 _Galvatron: absent, intentions previously verified, no action required._ He knew exactly where Galvatron was, out in the wasteland strip of asteroids known as the Belt, halfway from Charr to Cybertron. What he was _doing_ there was his own affair. Cyclonus had mentally classified it as "diplomatic relations", if only for the sake of everyone's dignity.

 _Scourge: Charr, acting command, no immediate action required._ His other triadmate was planetside at the Decepticon base, and the absence of messages from him suggested that nothing had gone wrong while Cyclonus was recharging. All well and good, then. Scourge could stay put for a bit longer while Cyclonus took a few minutes to himself.

Solitude, let alone privacy, were not luxuries he often had. He paid the inevitable price for being the only Decepticon on Charr with both the competence and the clearances to keep Galvatron's empire in order for him, and while he would never contemplate shirking his duties, they left him with little in the way of downtime. He set his triadmates aside from that complaint, of course - being around Galvatron was a privilege rather than a problem, and Scourge was his wingmate and therefore supposed to be at his shoulder pretty much permanently. That simply felt comfortable. The other Decepticons, though... Cyclonus inwardly sighed. Individually the various members of the army had their virtues, but en masse they were a disorderly rabble of malcontents, eccentrics and opportunists who made his life much harder than it needed to be.

Still, he wasn't due to take over from Scourge for a little while yet, so he put those thoughts out of his processor and let his mind drift to more pleasant places. As was normal after a recharge cycle, he'd woken up with his capacitor banks comfortably topped off and his thoughts clear. As was not uncommon for him in particular, he'd been dreaming wistfully of things the waking universe no longer afforded him. Full fuel tanks, the companionship of his Armada clone wing... the ultimate joy of flying in battle in his true altmode, with Galvatron's hands on his controls. That thought made a pang of emptiness nag briefly between his shoulders, the familiarity of the hollow sensation in his cockpit still not enough to resign him to it.

But at least he had the memories, and _those_ were enough to make his engines tick up before he'd quite realised where his mind and frame were going. He sighed a little, relaxing into the warmth and comfort of the berth - at least _that_ still felt like a luxury - and wrestled, very briefly, with his conscience. Did he really have enough time and fuel to spare for this sort of indulgence?

He concluded that he did, but in concession to that amber warning light, he emptied a few of his capacitor banks into others and cut the empty ones out of his charging paths. Self-charging was harder work than charging up with a partner's help anyway, and short-charging - using capacitor locks to reduce the total amount of charge needed to overload - was the easiest way to save time, fuel and effort while still getting a quick hit of pleasure. Cyclonus locked his banks at sixty percent capacitance, curled himself more comfortably into the tangle of padding blocks and blankets, and dimmed his optics. He brought his right hand to his midsection, tracing the outline of his belt panel, then let his fingertips slide higher, up to his chest. His left hand reached for the stabiliser blade on his right forearm, caressing its sleek-sharp edge even as his other hand threaded silver crackles of raw charge into the midseam of his chestplate.

He was rushing this, a little - cheating, going for quick and easy points of physical stimulation that would charge his systems up automatically, rather than lingering in fantasy and more subtle pleasure - but that didn't matter. This was only him shaking some excess charge and distracting thoughts out of his systems, a minor indulgence and nothing more; anything beyond that, he'd prefer to save until he had company anyway. He unlocked his chestplate latches, letting the split plate fold open, spilling pale-bright sparklight into the shadows. Fingertips grazed over the heavy armour of his lasercore shielding and his back arched in pleasure, the touch pulling a reflexive surge of heat and charge from his engines and sending power pulsing through him. _Ah,_ that was better...!

Short-charging as he was, it took only another few moments of his fingers bleeding power back into his core systems to push him over the edge. He tensed, cables straining taut as his capacitor banks tightened. System alerts flickered in his visual field and he pushed back against them for just another moment, pinging overrides to his relay interlocks, _not yet_ \- and then, on the cusp where pleasure and need started to edge into pain, let go.

Silver lightning snapped around him, earthing itself on the _Dis'_ shadow-dark walls - it left no mark, the ship would keep his secrets. Cyclonus gasped his pleasure and release, his head flung up, fingers pressing deep into his own circuits to chase the last sparks of charge out of them. He shifted his weight and let himself fall onto his back, sprawling loose-limbed and satisfied as his systems reset and his processor quickly checked for any updates it had missed during the last few minutes of distraction.

He frowned as he realised that there was a private, secured message from Scourge blinking in the corner of his optical display, and opened it with a thought.

_In case nobody's ever mentioned it, Cyc, you're gorgeous when you overload. I'm just saying._

Cyclonus groaned quietly and pinged his triadmate's radio. //Scourge?//

The voice that came back sounded distinctly sheepish - or possibly, so to say, Sweepish. //...yes?//

//Were you watching me just now?//

The silence was long enough to acknowledge that both of them already knew the answer to that. //What gave it away?//

//That interestingly-timed message of yours,// Cyclonus said. // _Why_ were you watching me?//

//If you _read_ that message, you shouldn't need me to tell you,// Scourge pointed out, although he still sounded somewhat guilty. //Besides, it was either watch you or watch what Galvatron's doing with the Prime out on the Belt.//

//And you have enough sense of self-preservation not to do the latter,// Cyclonus said dryly.

//You could say that.//

//But not enough sense of self-preservation not to spy on _me_ , it seems.//

He heard Scourge sigh. //...am I in trouble?// the tracker asked, resignedly.

Cyclonus smiled. He let himself sink back into the berth, dimming his optics a little. //After a fashion, perhaps.// He paused to let Scourge worry about that for a moment, and then went on, //Where are you?//

//In the monitor room.//

The monitor room was the neural hub of the Decepticon base, and very much Scourge's personal domain. While he and the Sweeps had unrivalled data-gathering capacities to begin with, the monitor room was where all of their observations plus a range of spy-cam feeds and recording devices were collated, indexed and stored for future reference. Scourge was a good enough eavesdropper by himself - in the monitor room, he was dangerously close to omniscient. //Alone?// Cyclonus asked.

//Yes, why-?//

//Lock the doors, then.// He gave the words a distinct weight of _that's an order_.

//What...// Scourge trailed off. //Done it,// he confirmed a moment later. //What are we doing?// He sounded somewhere between nervous and anticipatory.

Cyclonus laughed, dark and quiet. // _You_ are going to do as I tell you, Scourge.//

//I - of course I am.// The reply was quick and sparkfelt, and Cyclonus smiled. He knew his friend far too well for this game to be even slightly difficult. //Um...//

//Sit down.// He paused to let Scourge do so. //Comfortable?//

//Not quite the word I'd use.// He could hear the edged, half-hopeful tension in Scourge's voice, and had a very good idea of just what kind of uncomfortable his wingmate was. //What now?//

Cyclonus tilted his head back, deliberately relaxing his frame - not quite _getting into character_ , but leaning into the hidden, hedonistic side of his nature a little more than usual. //While you were watching me just now,// he began, //were you self-charging too?//

//What - no!//

Scourge's tone was utterly chagrined, and Cyclonus nearly laughed. //Why not?//

//...the door wasn't locked?//

He did laugh at that. //Fair,// he acknowledged. //But it's locked now.//

//Cyc-//

//Go ahead.// He lowered his voice to a black-velvet murmur, soft and intimate as if he'd had Scourge pinned underneath him right now and been whispering in his wingmate's audial. //I _know_ you, Scourge. I know you got yourself charged up watching that. Now you get to do something about it - for _me_.//

// _Cyc..._ // Scourge sounded ragged and breathless and needy already, and Cyclonus heard a muted scuff of metal over the radio link that must have been him twitching in his chair. //Uh... anything in particular, or just...?//

He considered that for a moment. //Don't start too fast,// he said. //Oh, and don't short-charge your way out of this, either. No lower than eighty percent.// That was kindness disguised as cruelty, and Scourge would know it. The tracker had a habit of short-charging far too far just to make sure he got off, and Cyclonus wanted his friend to have more fun than that this time. //Hmm... Start around your midsection, but don't touch your vent plate yet.// The inset slatted panel just above Scourge's waistline was a primary control surface in his altmode, which meant it was sensitive in either form. //Pelvic section, tops of your thighs if you like. Not your thrusters. Understood?//

//Understood...//

That soft scratch of metal in the background was Scourge's claws on his own plating. Cyclonus knew that noise _very_ well, and hearing it now sent a hot-edged thrill of pleasure through his systems. //Harder than that,// he growled. //This is a punishment, it's supposed to hurt. If you think I'm letting you off easily just because I can't touch you myself...//

Scourge let out a muffled gasp at that. //I wish you _were_ touching me yourself,// he confessed in a whisper, over a distinctly louder scrape of claws. //Also, so you know, the look you get when you're using that voice _kills_ me.//

Cyclonus made a soft sound of amusement. Of course Scourge could still see him, and was still making the most of the fact. He played to it: stretching his frame out and flexing his wings to their full span, drawing one knee up to show off the length of his legs, letting his fingers settle idly against his lips. //Noted. How does that feel?//

//Good... oh...// Cyclonus heard his wingmate's engines tick up in an unsteady whine. //Please...//

//Please, what?//

//... _please_ will you either take your damn hand away from your mouth or just admit you want to lick your fingers?//

Cyclonus stifled a laugh. That wasn't quite what he'd been expecting, but he'd concede Scourge that much. He dimmed his optics a little further and let his glossa flick out to play over his fingertips, feeling his own charge levels notch up a couple of percent. It was absolutely worth it just to hear the way Scourge moaned. //Better?// he teased.

//Ohh... definitely, mmh...//

//Carry on,// he ordered, regaining control of the situation. //What's your charge reading?//

//Sixty-seven.// Scourge sounded distinctly ragged around the edges.

//What did you set your interlocks to?//

//Ninety...// Claws scraped on metal and Scourge gasped. //Okay, that's sixty-eight now, by the way.//

//Good, that'll do. Get past seventy and I'll tell you where you can touch next.// He let the tips of his first two fingers slide between his lips and bit down lightly on them, pretending not to notice himself doing it. Powerful engines kicked in a brief surge of response, and he shivered with pleasure.

//Not difficult with you doing _that_ ,// Scourge said. His voice sounded so close inside Cyclonus's head, eager, almost awestruck. //Do you really have to be so beautiful... mmm, seventy-one, what now?//

He smiled, his spark warmed more than he would have admitted by Scourge's words. //Vent plate, thrusters if you like.// A slight pause. //It's a pity you can't really get at your own wings,// he added with studied nonchalance.

Scourge _whimpered_. //You know I can get the bottom edges - are you letting me try?// he asked hopefully. Metal scraped loudly, unevenly, and Cyclonus knew the tracker was fidgeting in his seat. There was a light, tinny clatter of sound that could only be him playing with his vent slats as Cyclonus had told him to, and a stutter of engine noise.

//Not quite yet,// Cyclonus warned. //Wings at eighty percent, not before. I can hear you squirming, Scourge,// he added, low and teasing. //Are you that desperate?//

//Nnh - _yes_ , you don't even know...// A sparkfelt groan coloured the words. //Cyc...//

//Shh.// He knew Scourge trusted him, knew his friend was enjoying this as much as he was. A little bit of cruelty was just part of how they were with each other, and Scourge knew he wouldn't take it too far. //That's it. Chestplate and shoulder thrusters too if you want to... tell me how that feels.//

Metal scuffed, and Cyclonus heard claws scratch on armour and then a moan. //Good... really good. Ohh... _want you, Cyc..._ //

The last words were a quick, plausibly-deniable whisper, but Cyclonus didn't miss them. //Tell me,// he commanded softly. //Tell me what you want.//

// _Hhh_ \- you on top of me, your hands on my wings...// Cyclonus might not be able to see or feel it from here, but he could imagine Scourge ducking his head, optics lowered, his aura scalding hot with desire and shame at being made to say things like this. //You're better at hurting me than I am,// the tracker added, with a little almost-laugh.

//So I should hope,// Cyclonus retorted, but he didn't try to keep the warmth from his tone. His hand was still resting against his lips, and he was struck by inspiration. //Scourge?//

//...yes?//

//Play with your claws a little for me. Put your fingers in your mouth. Mirror me, since I know you can see what I'm doing.// He nipped at his own fingertips with his dentae - they weren't anything like as sensitive as the precision-engineered razor points of Scourge's claws, he knew, but the sensation was enjoyable enough and the thought of Scourge watching him do it was worth a couple of percent of extra charge on its own. //Mmm...//

//Void _take_ it, Cyc-!// Yes, he'd startled Scourge nicely with _that_ instruction. Good. He heard Scourge moan and then whimper shamelessly, and knew he was doing exactly as he'd been ordered - and while Cyclonus didn't share his friend's perceptual range, he didn't need to see directly to have a very clear mental picture. Scourge would be sprawled back in the console chair, optics dimmed and wings trembling with arousal; one hand's fingers threaded between the slats of his vent plate to drip charge into his own circuitry, the other pressed to his mouth as he nipped and licked at his claws.

It was a good image. Cyclonus arched his back with a quiet moan, enjoying the thought...

//...you're into this, aren't you?//

He laughed. Trust Scourge to push his luck. //Always,// he murmured. //Are you surprised?//

//Honestly? Every time.// He could picture Scourge's wry smile. //Ohh - eighty percent, by the way, if you wanted to know. Cyc, please...//

//All right.// He smiled, fond. //Touch your wings for me. And I want to be able to hear what you're doing.//

Scourge gasped, a deep, unsteady draw of air through his intakes as his cooling systems kicked up, fighting to shed heat faster than his engines could generate it. //Okay... oh, _nnnh_ -// There was the distinctive echoing ring of a free-hinged armour plate being touched, and Scourge made a noise that was nothing short of desperate. Cyclonus growled in wordless approval, encouraging him; and on impulse he reached his free hand to trace up the midseam of his chestplate once again, arching into the touch of his own charge-slicked fingers and letting silver-violet static drip down his armour. Scourge was watching him anyway, let him have something worth seeing.

There was another chiming scrape of claws on plating and a panting moan on the other end of the link. Scourge sounded utterly undone, caught up somewhere painfully close to the edge of overload and loving every torturous second of it. //Ohh... oh, Cyc please...//

//That's it, Scourge.// He kept his voice low, calm, but edged with enough cruelty to hit that little hidden kink of Scourge's for _being broken_. The tracker would never admit it, but Cyclonus's patented Command Voice with just enough of a hint of contempt in it definitely did things to him. //Keep going... tell me what you're doing,// he added on impulse.

//Right now?// Scourge's voice broke on something close to laughter. //Biting my fingers and trying to pretend it's you doing it.//

Cyclonus chuckled quietly, through the shock of arousal that that thought sent through him. //Bite them harder, then, you know I would. What's your charge now?//

//Eighty-nine... please, Cyc, please...//

//Hmm.// He drew the syllable out into a thoughtful rumble, pretending to think about it; mentally counted to ten, listening to the gasps and whimpers, the desperate sounds of scraping metal. //All right, Scourge.// His voice was a growl. //Overload for me.//

// _Nnh-!_ // The connection briefly fritzed out in a raw, noisy burst of static. When it caught itself up again he could hear Scourge panting, cooling systems running shakily high-pitched, armour clinking as he trembled. //Ohhhh... Cyc?//

//I'm here.// All gentleness now, reassuring, catching his wingmate safely as Scourge fell ragged and broken off the edge for him. //Well done, Scourge. Are you all right?//

//I'm fine... I'm fine.// Say that much for Scourge, he pulled himself together quickly. Cyclonus could picture him shaking his head and sitting up in his chair, refractory protocols already booting his systems back up to normal status. //What about you? You didn't...//

//I'll save it for later.// He'd picked up something of a renewed charge of his own doing that, but Cyclonus had honed his self-discipline with _Galvatron_. It took more than a round of comm-play to leave him desperate if he didn't choose to be. //We can both go off duty when Galvatron gets back,// he reminded Scourge playfully.

//...so we can.// Scourge's voice caught, just a little, at that. //Ah, can you come down and trade off with me for now, though? I think I need a break.//

Cyclonus laughed softly. //On my way.//

//...Cyc?//

//Hmm?//

//Thanks.//

He smiled. //Welcome.//

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attentive readers may have noticed the reference to Galvatron being out with Rodimus Prime. Yes, this is what was going on at home while Chapter 1 was occurring. ;)


	8. In a public place - Galvatron/Rodimus Prime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galvatron/Rodimus, for the prompt "In a public place". (Warnings: canon-typical violence and some masochistic tendencies. I don't even know how the fuck to warn for this but I promise everyone's having fun in their own fashion at least. Tactile-style interfacing, rated PG-13.)
> 
> (Additional notes: this is out of sequence from the original prompt list, but sometimes you just have to write what you've got in your head, and I figured I'd rather post this now than sit on it. Enjoy!)

Rodimus Prime looked into his lover's optics along the length of the deadliest weapon in the galaxy, saw Galvatron's warning grin, and threw himself flat.

Who-knew-how-many-million volts of chain lightning seared over his head, the air crackling with ozone above him. He rolled and came back to his feet, returned fire with his wrist guns because his rifle was somewhere over _there_ , transformed, and charged Galvatron headlong. For some deranged reason, as they crashed together and Rodimus hurriedly transformed back in a desperate bid to stay on top of the resulting fandango-in-a-foundry clash of armoured metal, both of them were laughing like loons.

Rodimus wondered, briefly, why he'd ever worried about this.

When he'd first gotten swept up in this - when he'd realised that he'd _fallen in love with the Herald of Unicron_ \- Rodimus had, at first, been too busy with the emotional and logistical challenges of winning Galvatron's spark and then actually getting time to see him to entirely remember that there were broader implications. Intoxicated with love and lust and the sheer thrill of getting everything his frame and spark had craved, he'd been trying not to think about the fact that they were still technically on opposite sides. And on the first battlefield after their first time together, he'd faltered. He'd looked Galvatron in the optics through the smoke and the fire and the air-searing scream of laser bolts, and he'd thought, _I love you too much to do this._ Galvatron in full battle-fury was like some mythic god of war, all speed and grace and power and rage, and he was _beautiful_ and Rodimus just - couldn't.

And Galvatron, with a merry grin and a devastating right hook, had punted him clear over the horizon. Rodimus had come round in the medbay to find Kup, Springer, and Ultra Magnus forming an orderly queue to ask him _what the slag had gone wrong_ and fuss over him until they were sure he still had all his components attached in the right places. He hadn't been sure what to make of any of it, but when they had to chase off the Decepticons again a week later, he'd forced himself to override the urge to fall at Galvatron's feet and instead he'd _hit back_. Hard.

Four days after _that_ , he'd met Galvatron on their rendezvous asteroid and Galvatron hadn't so much as mentioned either fight, just greeted him eagerly and pulled him in for a ferocious round of kissing that suggested the Herald wasn't holding a grudge even slightly. Rodimus, relieved and grateful, had seized the opportunity to get all the stored-up falling-to-his-knees out of his systems while it wasn't going to have any long-term strategic consequences - much to Galvatron's seeming delight.

He'd started looking for a pattern, after that. And he'd realised that there definitely was one. In the berth, or at least figurative berth since they were actually doing most of it on bare rock, Galvatron absolutely wanted control. He was flat-out domineering most of the time, invariably taking the lead, never the first to overload and apparently bent on reducing Rodimus to helpless bliss under his hands every time they met. Which was _fine_ , oh Primus, Rodimus had come to the conclusion that that was _exactly his kink_ and he had no complaints whatsoever. But everywhere else - in battle, in general, and crucially, _in public_ \- it seemed Galvatron wanted and expected Rodimus to push him, challenge him, and generally fight back as hard as he ever had. There never seemed to be any adverse consequences in private if he _did_ , and Galvatron certainly wasn't going any easier on him in fights than before they'd started seeing each other. (Rodimus couldn't bring himself to call it _dating_. Decepticons in general didn't _date_ to begin with, and he couldn't even imagine Galvatron's face if someone accused _him_ of it.)

To Rodimus, who had been having more than a few guilty nightmares regarding the possibility that Galvatron might end up conquering the galaxy just because Rodimus was too smitten to stop him if the alternative was getting dumped, this had been a huge relief. If _Galvatron_ of all mechs could be professional enough to keep the personal side of their relationship separate like that, not to mention hidden from everyone else on both factions, Rodimus could totally manage it too.

Still, being this close to each other in battle had its complications. Even though he could feel the savagery and joyfully unleashed violence in Galvatron's aura hammering into his own fields like a storm, underneath that beacon-blaze of fury was still the familiar battle-scarred warmth and brightness that was just _Galvatron_ , and the feeling of the Herald's heavy armour skidding and scraping against his own conjured up all kinds of memories that didn't belong in the thick of a fight even slightly. Even Galvatron's grip on his arm, fingers clenched tight enough that Rodimus could feel his plating creak, was sending conflicting signals to his processors. It wasn't _fair_ , Galvatron _knew_ how much that kind of rough handling turned Rodimus on. He'd accuse the Herald of fighting dirty... were it not for the fact that Galvatron had _always_ fought like this, vicious and raw and with every inch of his weaponised frame put to use in any way he could think of. That was just his style.

It was totally Rodimus's fault for getting a _taste_ for it.

He'd ended up on top, at least for a moment, the two of them glaring at each other with their optics - and their lips, _Primus help him_ \- less than a metre apart. For a wild moment Rodimus considered just dipping his head and covering Galvatron's mouth with his own, but there was literally no way that both their respective forces wouldn't notice _that_ happening, regardless of whether Galvatron kissed him back or kicked his aft. He shoved his hips down instead, wedged his knee between Galvatron's thighs, trying to keep the Herald down for long enough to-

-and Galvatron arched up under him, totally deliberately pushing into the contact, and he _grinned_ at Rodimus with his optics narrowed and dentae bared and _oh help_. Rodimus gasped at the slam of heat down his backstrut, showing his own dentae as his interfacing protocols and his combat subroutines crashed head-on into each other and his whole frame shuddered with the resultant hit of mechadrenaline. Somewhere in all of that tangle, his subprocessors took over from his helplessly conflicted spark and punched Galvatron hard in the head.

Galvatron's helm cracked against his shoulder pylon with a resounding crash, and he blinked, snarled and then twisted lithely under Rodimus and somehow kicked free. The Herald's raw strength was intoxicating - he simply rolled sideways and flipped both of them over, flattening Rodimus against the torn-up grass and dirt of this alien world. Rodimus gasped - pinned on his back under Galvatron's weight, _oh that felt too familiar_ \- and tried to wriggle away, but Galvatron knew his frame too well by now - _and whose fault is THAT, Rodimus Prime?_ \- and he wasn't getting out of this position in a hurry.

Then again, two could play at this game. Rodimus reached down, slid his hand under the edge of Galvatron's chestplate right where he knew there was a sensitive spot, and pumped a hard burst of charge through his fingertips and straight into Galvatron's core systems. Galvatron gasped at the sensation, a bright flash of arousal and pleasure and _delight_ punching through the wall-to-wall aggression in his aura, and gave Rodimus a ferocious grin. And Rodimus desperately swallowed down a moan because oh _Primus_ that tactic had just backfired like _whoa_ -

"Get off him, Decepticreep!"

Springer's voice, as subtle as a brick through a windshield - and Springer's bodyweight crashing into Galvatron from the side as he dived in chopper mode and transformed, as Rodimus had done a few moments before, mid-impact. Galvatron let out a screech of outrage as he was knocked sideways and away from his extremely conflicted victim and Rodimus scrambled to his feet, pulling himself together now that he wasn't in direct physical contact with his nemesis-with-benefits. "Springer!"

Springer, as it turned out, had the sense Primus gave silicate, and hadn't let Galvatron grapple him. He'd swapped back to his helicopter mode and pulled free, and was now hovering just above Galvatron and pouring fire into him. The Herald's armour was soaking most of it, but it was still far more effective than trying to go hand-to-hand with him, as Rodimus had just amply demonstrated. Rodimus brought his own wrist guns to bear and joined in the firestorm, letting the rush of combat protocols carry him beyond any guilt he might have otherwise felt at opening up on his own lover.

And then Galvatron validated his decision entirely by firing straight back at him. Rodimus ducked frantically, evading a plasma bolt that would have put a serious crimp in his day, and yelled over his radio. //Arcee! Have you got past that shield yet?//

//Almost there, Rodimus! Hang on!//

//Make it quick or Springer and me are scrap steel! We've got Galvatron pinned down and you know how well that ever works!//

//Just keep him out of our way for another few seconds!// Arcee sounded as frantic as Rodimus felt. Those few seconds felt like a year as Rodimus and Springer desperately ducked and dived to stay out of Galvatron's fire while keeping up their own - and then, from across the battlefield, there came the deep, shuddering roar of an explosion. A multicoloured fireball bloomed spectacularly overhead as the alien weapon that the two factions had been fighting over in the first place blew up. Arcee's voice rang across the radio link in a wordless whoop, and Rodimus gasped in relief.

Galvatron's head snapped around, and he gave voice to a scream of balked fury that was no more coherent than Arcee's victory shout had been. He kicked off the ground, thrusters firing with a roar, cutting past Springer as the ex-Wrecker dived at him. " _Decepticons! To me!_ "

Rodimus had to duck as he nearly got his head taken off by a low-flying Cyclonus responding to that order, but he was still laughing for no real reason beyond triumph and exhilaration. "Get out of here, Galvatron!" he yelled. It seemed like the appropriate response in the circumstances, even if several parts of him were of the opinion that they'd actually much prefer it if Galvatron stuck around.

Not that it seemed Galvatron was in the mood for _that_ right now, to judge by the glare he got in reply. " _When I get my hands on you, Rodimus Prime-!_ "

He couldn't resist. "Promises, Galvatron!" he called back, and then had to hit the deck again as his lover fired off an entirely literal parting shot in his direction. It was a snap shot and at long range, but still dangerously well aimed - and Rodimus knew full well that 'long-range' from Galvatron didn't mean it wouldn't hurt.

He was laughing all the same as Springer offered him a hand up. "Well, you got him good and torqued off!" the triple-changer said gleefully. "Nice work, buddy."

"You should be more wary," Wheelie said worriedly, popping up beside them from whatever foxhole he'd spent the battle in. "Galvatron's scary!"

Rodimus shook his head, chuckling. "Ah, he's just blowing smoke. I don't think he's ever _actually_ going to get round to pulling my diodes out."

He didn't add any explanations that might have wiped the look of amused respect off Springer's face. But he'd just received a very quick ping to his comm that was nothing more than a familiar set of astronav coordinates and a galactic standard date and time, so... yeah, he was _fairly_ sure his diodes were safe this time as well.


	9. Dom/sub - Rodimus Prime/Cyclonus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rodimus Prime/Cyclonus, for the prompt "Dom/sub". (Warnings: OT3+1 and therefore polyamory references, a dash of hurt/comfort, consensual power exchange, kink negotiation, novice dom/experienced sub, practice scene. Safe, sane, and explicitly consensual all the way. Tactile-style interfacing, rating M.)

"I don't know how you do it," Rodimus said. "I really don't."

"How I do what?" Cyclonus was leaning back against the wall of the Unicronians' berthroom, with the Autobot Prime curled up against him. Rodimus had draped his frame between Cyclonus's spread legs, half-lying on Cyclonus's chest with his head nestled against the warrior's shoulder. Cyclonus had a hand on his helm, stroking him in idle comfort. There was a low-level, subdued distress prickling through Rodimus's aura that was concerning him.

"Being so... in control all the time. Good at giving orders and telling people to do stuff so that they'll actually do it." Rodimus sighed. "I feel like I'll never get the hang of that part. And everyone expects me to, I dunno, speak with the authority of the Matrix or something. Half the time the Matrix isn't even paying attention as far as I can tell but nobody believes me when I say that." He let out another, heavier sigh.

Cyclonus gave that the consideration it deserved. "In my experience," he said eventually, "giving orders is simple enough when you have a clear objective in mind, and know what part others must play to accomplish it. And a confident leader is readily followed, because most people are secretly waiting for someone else to do their thinking for them... though of course I was coded for military strategy, so perhaps that's easy for me to say." He stroked Rodimus's helm again. "Is this troubling you so much?"

"Honestly? I hate it. But maybe you're right. Maybe I'm bad at giving orders because I have no idea what _I'm_ doing most of the time, let alone what anyone else should be doing." He made a dissatisfied noise. "I wasn't cut out for this job."

Cyclonus had heard that from the young Prime a distressing number of times. "It seems you are a free spirit, Hot Rod. You have little taste for obedience, and less for being obeyed."

Rodimus untensed slightly, burrowing into Cyclonus's arms. The Unicronians had collectively picked up the habit of calling him by his old name on occasion as a token of comfort - and while it did hurt a little, he was grateful for it. It reassured him that they really did see more in him than just his title and the Matrix. "I don't mind obeying _some_ people," he said, his voice muffled. "Sometimes."

Cyclonus was tactful enough not to say anything in the vein of _I'd noticed._ "Can you really not think of any context in which you would also appreciate having someone obeying you?"

Rodimus looked up at him with a crooked grin. "Maybe around the point where everyone's being awkward for the sake of it and I just want the arguing to stop?" He laughed ruefully. "But that just makes me wish I had Galvatron's knack for yelling at people."

"You might be able to learn from his example, true." Cyclonus had to smile. "But that wasn't quite what I meant." He tilted Rodimus's chin up with the side of his forefinger and bent his head, capturing the Prime's mouth in a slow, sensual kiss. //I was thinking more,// he continued over radio, //of you commanding one who would take pleasure in it.//

Rodimus tilted his head up into the kiss, parting his lips willingly enough, but he sagged a little at the words. //Who would that be?// he replied dejectedly. //Seems like everyone wants me to lead but nobody wants to follow me when I try... wait.// His aura fluttered with sudden shy heat and he squirmed in Cyclonus's arms. //You... weren't talking about that, were you?//

//Not precisely,// Cyclonus admitted. He traced Rodimus's lips with his glossa, making Rodimus whimper softly into his mouth. //If you wished to command _me_ in that, I would permit it,// he murmured. //I don't know if it would help your confidence, but perhaps you could see it as practice... or if not, then simply as pleasure.//

Rodimus hesitated, though he didn't break away from the kiss. //Maybe, but... what's in it for you? You don't have to try and help just because you feel sorry for me, Cyc.//

So like Rodimus, already protecting himself against a disappointment he hadn't even received yet. Cyclonus kissed him deeper, held him closer. //For me?// he repeated. //You have to ask? Rodimus, I would trust you with my life - and your power is almost a match for Galvatron's, you only doubt yourself too much to really know it. If you think I wouldn't wish to feel that strength bent on me _outside_ of a battlefield,// he laughed softly, //then you don't yet know me as well as you should.//

There was an almost awestruck silence. Rodimus broke the kiss and pulled back to look up at him, blue optics wide in the friendly darkness. "Seriously?" he breathed.

Cyclonus nodded. "Entirely."

"You'd let _me_ tell _you_ what to do in the berth?" Rodimus blinked at him as though dealing with a sudden severe case of metaprocessor lag. "I... are you sure? I'm warning you, Cyc, I wouldn't even know where to start." His aura was tingling with emotions that blurred between shyness and shame, but his optics had darkened, and Cyclonus could feel the subtle shiver of vibration through the Prime's frame as his core engine ticked up. "And also, um, what happened to 'only Galvatron tells me what to do'? Would _he_ be okay with this idea?"

"Lord Galvatron would like nothing better than to see you find your confidence and learn to command as is your right," Cyclonus assured him. It was the truth - Galvatron was frequently incensed by the Autobots' seeming disrespect for their leader, _his_ counterpart and consort. "He would certainly not be displeased with me for trying to encourage you."

"Whoa," Rodimus breathed. "So you're okay with this, _he's_ okay with this... give me a minute, I'm trying to figure out if _I'm_ okay with this." He nuzzled into Cyclonus's chestplate for a moment, almost clinging. "I really wouldn't have a clue where to start," he admitted in a near whisper. "Could you, I don't know, give me some remedial training or something?"

Cyclonus laughed, very quietly. "Of course I could," he replied. "I would never press you to try unless you wish - but if you do, then yes, I can guide you."

He felt the little pulse of gratitude and relief that flickered through Rodimus's aura at that. "The stories never say what happens _after_ you get swept off your feet," the Prime murmured, seemingly half to himself. "Surely you don't just get carried for the rest of your life?"

He looked up at Cyclonus with his optics bright. "You know what, you're right. I don't _want_ to be one of those people who gets someone else to do all my thinking for me... not even you or Galvatron. And if you'd enjoy it too...?" He trailed off until he saw Cyclonus nod, then relaxed and went on. "Then okay. I'd like to try."

Cyclonus gave him a smile. "Very well." He considered for a moment. "Some rules of engagement, before we begin, then. First, either of us may call a halt to this... training exercise at any time, with no need for a justification." He stroked Rodimus's helm again, reassuring. "Second, I _will_ stop you if you are about to do any damage to me that would affect my fitness for duty. I very much doubt that you would," he added, seeing Rodimus's look of shock, "but that condition is there and I prefer to be clear about it. Likewise, I am not prepared to do any such damage to you. And third - I am willing to let you command me, to choose what I do to you and what you do to me. I am _not_ willing to be humiliated, shamed or ridiculed." His optics narrowed a little. "Again, I do not believe you would... but."

"Are you kidding me? I wouldn't dream of it. Cyc, you're _all_ about the pride and honour, I wouldn't even try to take any of that away from you. It's part of what I lo- like about you." He stretched up and pressed his lips to Cyclonus's for a moment, soft but determined. "But - yeah, thanks for being clear. I understand the rules and I agree to them."

There was just a hint of formality in his tone for a moment, and Cyclonus was pleased to hear him taking this seriously. "Good," he confirmed. "Then we can begin."

"Okay," Rodimus said, determined not to falter. "Um... how?"

"You recall that I said it is easier to give orders when you have a clear result in mind? Start there. Consider what you want." He shifted his position a little, opening up both his body language and his aura. His energy fields, silver as moonlight, were calm and inviting where they interlaced with Rodimus's. "I am, for now, at your command. I'm sure there must be things you would like to do to me, or have me do to you, that we have never tried. Perhaps, given our coding differences, things it would not even occur to me _to_ try." He smiled a little. "Think, consider, take your time. And do not feel you need to overreach - this is a first test. Something simple would be quite enough."

Rodimus nodded and tried to think about it without getting vertigo. _At your command._ Gorgeous, proud, disciplined, _dangerous_ Cyclonus... gracefully ceding power to _him?_

He felt like he wasn't worthy, but at least that was a feeling he was used to. And unlike the Matrix or indeed the entire Autobot army, Cyclonus had _asked_ if he wanted this power and was willing to revoke it as soon as it became too much for Rodimus to handle. That was... helpful. It already made him feel like he had some kind of agency here, rather than being a figurehead on a pole who couldn't get down.

"Let me up," he said, experimentally. Cyclonus's hands fell easily from their already gentle grip on his frame, and the warrior let them lie open at his sides.

 _Compliant. He didn't ask why, he didn't huff or complain, he didn't demand what he should do instead. Just did as I asked._ Rodimus blinked as he processed that. Of course he had Autobots who would do as he said without protest, but that still only felt like organising his friends and he was always aware that they'd question him the moment they felt it appropriate. This was very different.

And Cyclonus was looking at him, intent but not impatient. Just - standing by, _waiting_ for Rodimus to choose what happened next. Rodimus sat back, looking at him in the shadows of the berthroom.

By some measures Cyclonus was arguably the most "normal" looking of the Unicronians. He didn't have Galvatron's exotic frametype or Scourge's blatantly Unicron-esque decorative adornments, but he was still breathtaking. His long legs and the placement of his wings gave him a hint of the archetypal Seeker aesthetic, but the elegant sculpting around his forearms and the graceful weight of his helm with its split crest were distinctly unique. His design language matched his triadmates far more closely than it did anything Cybertron-built that Rodimus had ever seen, and all three of them looked...

... _mythical_ , was the word that kept coming to Rodimus's mind. Some elements of their designs were _old_ , way past "retro" and straight into "archaic", while others were purely fantastical and reminiscent of things from the corners of stories that the Twins had told him about Golden Age ghosts and monsters. It was like sitting with one of Cybertron's darker folk tales before him and waiting on his whim, and that thought sent shivers through his circuits.

"Lie down for me," he said, after a moment's careful consideration. "Properly, I mean. You're all tucked into the corner there. I want to look at you."

The warrior lowered his head a little in acknowledgement, and shifted away from the wall. He stretched himself out in the tangle of thermal blankets, displaying his frame for Rodimus with a calm lack of self-consciousness that the Prime briefly envied. His colour-shifting stealth paint had shaded to a muted indigo to mesh with the starlight and darkness, shadows pooling deep in the angles and hollows of his bodywork.

"...Primus, you're beautiful," Rodimus breathed, awed. And then, "May I touch you?"

"You may do as you wish," Cyclonus murmured. "At your command, remember?"

"Yeah, bear with me," Rodimus said sheepishly. "Not used to that part. Promise you'll stop me if I do anything I shouldn't?"

Cyclonus smiled. "You have my word. So, as long as I do _not_ stop you, go on as you please."

Rodimus nodded, and ran a very quick reset on his emotional control module. _This was fine, and he was allowed to do it_. He reached out and caressed the side of Cyclonus's helm crest, letting his fingertips slide on the cool metal with its dusty-smooth camouflage paint. "I never usually get to just _touch_ you. There's always something else going on." He traced the steep ridge of Cyclonus's cheek, brushed his fingertips lightly over the warrior's lips, watching them part at the touch. "You really are gorgeous," he added softly.

The words, and the touch, sent a shiver down Cyclonus's backstrut. He tilted his head back a little, optics dimming, allowing Rodimus to caress him. _Lie still and let me touch you_ was not an unfamiliar directive, but this was very different from anything he was accustomed to. Rodimus's touch was so excruciatingly gentle, slipping light as steelsilk over Cyclonus's heavy warbuild armour, drawing bright, caressing warmth in its wake. Careful fingertips moved lower, sweeping the edge of his collar and then down onto his chestplate, and Cyclonus arched his back in pleasure heightened by uncertainty. His own appetites had been sharpened against the edges of his triadmates' - he knew what to do with Galvatron's fierce possessiveness or Scourge's greed, and welcomed them. For this, he had no extant protocols. And in the face of such cautious tenderness, his first impulse was to demand _harder, more_.

He controlled that urge with a thought. He knew Rodimus well enough to be certain that if he asked for anything, Rodimus would set his own desires aside in favour of trying to give it, and that would defeat the purpose of this exercise entirely. The young Prime was _theirs_ , yes; but their lover, not their slave. If Rodimus wanted this - to touch him so lightly, to tease his sensors and explore his frame what felt like an inch at a time - then that was what he wanted, and so be it. If this was Rodimus's taste in pleasure, then Cyclonus would yield to it gracefully, and learn how to map it to his own.

After all, what he himself savoured most was the tension of will opposing desire, the sweet torment of finding himself poised on a sharp edge between his frame's craving and his spark's discipline. And he could already see how to do that here, too: he could balance his want for _more_ against his commitment to accepting Rodimus's orders whatever they might be, just as he might balance the need to overload against the command to endure under Galvatron's hands. A shiver of delight prickled through his circuits as he pushed back his instincts, shrugged off his expectations, and willingly relaxed into Rodimus's touch.

Rodimus, meanwhile, looked down in something close to awe as Cyclonus arched up against his hand with optics dimmed in seeming trust. He was being too tentative, he was sure of that, but Cyclonus wasn't calling him to account for it; if anything, he seemed to be quite deliberately acknowledging and accepting Rodimus's pace. "Is this all right?" he asked softly.

Cyclonus smiled, an understated little quirk of his lips, languid and sensual. "Of course," he murmured. "Are _you_ all right?"

He thought about it for a moment. "...seems that way." He grinned, relieved. This wasn't exactly scary, and there _was_ something thrilling about it. Having someone he trusted, trusting _him_... yeah, that went some distance towards reassuring him that maybe he was _worth_ trusting. Maybe he could do this and not screw it up.

He let his hand trace lower, curling his grip around the side of Cyclonus's midsection. Under his palm he could feel the low, steady vibration of Cyclonus's engines ticking over, the complex silver weave of the energy fields radiating through his armour. Cyclonus let slip a soft sound that wasn't quite a moan, and Rodimus shivered.

His gaze was drawn to Cyclonus's mouth as the warrior bit down on his lip, his optics dimming still further, darkening almost to black. Reminding himself _don't ask for permission_ , Rodimus shifted his weight, lowered his head and kissed his friend on the lips.

Cyclonus tensed, but the shudder that ran through his frame spilled over into his aura as a liquid shimmer of desire rather than any kind of resistance. He lifted his head to accept Rodimus's mouth against his own, leaning up into the kiss. "Mmmh..."

...oh. _Oh,_ that _did_ feel good. Cyclonus's kisses tasted like starlight and high-octane jetfuel, cool and sweet and intoxicating; and he _still_ wasn't trying to take the lead from Rodimus, only parting his lips under the touch of Rodimus's glossa in open surrender. Rodimus shuddered at the rush of arousal that pulsed through his circuits and he deepened the kiss, delighting in the way Cyclonus arched up against him as though he was getting as much out of this as Rodimus was. //Kiss me back,// he urged, and moaned as Cyclonus instantly _did_ , licking into Rodimus's mouth with all the skill and hunger Rodimus was used to from him.

Only this time it was _at Rodimus's direction_ , and that was a thrill entirely different from the usual bliss of letting his lovers do exactly as they pleased with him. _Maybe I really can get used to this..._

He lowered himself down further, stretching out to lie on top of Cyclonus, pinning the Unicronian with his weight. He still had one hand curled around Cyclonus's side; he slipped the other under Cyclonus's helm, pulling his lover up and closer into the kiss. Cyclonus didn't protest any of it, only shifting to let Rodimus's considerable weight settle comfortably atop him and tilting his head compliantly, but his hands were still resting by his sides...

...of course they were, Rodimus hadn't given him any instruction to the contrary. Being in command might be exciting, but it also meant it was his responsibility to _think_ of things like that, he reminded himself belatedly and with something of a wince.

He broke away from the kiss, looking down at Cyclonus. "Touch me," he whispered - and then remembered that that wouldn't be enough. Orders were supposed to be specific, weren't they? And his whole body was tingling with stray charge and his capacitor banks were feeling deliciously tight already, but his interface gear was aching under its covering panel and he needed, oh, he _needed_ Cyclonus's touch there... "I want your hand on my interface panel," he managed, trying not to let his aura flush hot with embarrassment at saying that so bluntly and forcing himself not to add the instinctive "please" that would have completely undermined his attempt at any kind of authority. "Want your charge in me..."

And Cyclonus flashed him a smile and reached up and pressed his palm over Rodimus's still-closed panel, fingertips dripping silver static into the panel seams. Rodimus gasped, tensed, and then shuddered as the latches bypassed his conscious control and clicked open, the panel sliding back under Cyclonus's touch. "Ohh-!"

"Shall I go on?" Cyclonus asked him softly.

Oh thank Primus he was doing this with someone who was not only good at following orders but also good at extrapolating what the _next_ order ought to be. "Yes," he managed, "pl- yes, do it. Touch me... oh, Cyc..."

Cyclonus could feel Rodimus trembling on top of him, the Prime's aura a static-drenched tangle of lust and want and delight. He pressed his fingers under that open panel, channelling his own charge through his fingertips to pour it into Rodimus's eager ports, and Rodimus bucked against him and pulled him into a desperate, hungry kiss. Cyclonus arched up eagerly, testing his own strength against Rodimus's weight, pleasure surging hot through his circuits as he discovered that Rodimus did indeed have him effectively pinned down. His fingers teased at Rodimus's ports, flooding the Prime's circuits with charge just as Rodimus had asked, and Rodimus moaned against his mouth and clung to him and caressed him with a fierce urgency, his touch pouring heat through Cyclonus's armour. The glittering rush of shared charge building between them was exquisite, and Cyclonus allowed himself to get lost in the moment, just for now...

//Cyc...//

//Rodimus?//

//Can you - uh, if I wanted you to overload right now, what would I have to do to get you off? Because oh _Primus_ you're gorgeous and I really really want to feel you come for me...//

There was a tremor of embarrassment in Rodimus's voice and fields, but the tangible heat of arousal pouring off him did a great deal to drown it out. Cyclonus shuddered as his tensor cables tightened, feeling his own charge levels jolt higher just at the words alone. //At this point? Telling me to would be enough.// He was already relying on his interlocks to hold himself back, capacitors aching with the need for release - and being _commanded to overload_ always hit him somewhere deep in his core programming where his pleasure subroutines had cross-linked irrevocably with his Unicron-installed obedience coding. If Rodimus gave him _that_ order, he'd be able to follow it on the spot - and he _wanted_ that, oh how he wanted it, but he didn't say as much aloud. Let Rodimus decide.

Rodimus broke the kiss and looked down at him, optics hectically over-bright with charge and desire, biting his lip without seeming to know he was doing it. Cyclonus held his gaze, unashamed, showing Rodimus his own hunger and willingness. _Say it, Rodimus, if that's what you want. Command me and let me obey you._

_Let both of us have this._

"...Cyclonus? Come for me."

The Prime's voice was a shaking whisper, but the words and the weight of Rodimus's frame on top of him and the heat of Rodimus's desire and lust flooding his sensornets were more than enough. Cyclonus snapped off his interlocks with a gasp of relief, arching up as his systems flashed over in a burst of pleasure and silver fire - and he poured as much of it as he could control through the fingertips of the hand that was still pressed into Rodimus's open interface array. " _Ah!_ Rodimus..."

He saw Rodimus's optics go wide in the moment before he shuddered with his own release, pushed straight off the edge by Cyclonus's overload. Rodimus cried out, clutching at him fiercely; Cyclonus reached up with his free hand to return the gesture, wrapping his arm around Rodimus's back and pulling him down and close.

He hadn't been told to do that, but sometimes it was all right to follow an order that you knew _would_ have been given if it had occurred to the one commanding. Rodimus simply wasn't experienced enough to think of everything he wanted, let alone confident enough to demand all of it. Let Cyclonus do at least some of his thinking for him, just for now.

If Rodimus had known what Cyclonus was thinking, he would have agreed entirely that he needed the help. He'd never known until he'd started playing with the Unicronians that overloading on command was even _possible_ , for anyone - watching Cyclonus do it for _him_ had just blown out his logic centres almost more than his own overload had, because that had been the most intoxicating rush of love and lust and _power_ he could ever remember. Briefly he was almost disconnected from his own body as his systems flashed over, lost and drowned in pleasure, and as he came back to himself he realised he was shaking. "Oh... oh, Cyc..."

He clung to his lover, and buried his face against Cyclonus's shoulder. That had been fantastic, but it had felt like a lot for what had, on the face of it, been some fairly straightforward interfacing. "Are you okay?"

"Of course," Cyclonus murmured. "Are you? You seemed to be getting somewhat more sure of yourself towards the last of that." He had his hand on Rodimus's back, stroking and soothing, and his voice was warm with affection.

"Did I? I mean... yeah, I _was_ pretty into it there." His aura flushed warm. "It was... that was special. Thank you. Did I do okay? I mean, please don't rate me against Galvatron or anything," he said hastily. "I don't think my pride could take it. But - uh - for a first try?"

Cyclonus snorted laughter. "You did very well," he reassured. "And thank you. I enjoyed that a great deal."

"Seriously?" Yes, he'd felt Cyclonus come, and come _hard_ , underneath him - and he shivered with renewed arousal just _thinking_ about that - but he couldn't help wanting to double check. Could he _really_ take the credit for that?

"I'm entirely serious." Cyclonus's hand curled around his helm, coaxing his head up until the two of them were looking each other in the optics. "Don't doubt yourself, Rodimus. Do you really believe I would lie to you, least of all about something like this?"

"...Cyc, from you, that's practically a trick question." He sighed, half laughing - there was no way he could possibly accuse _Cyclonus_ of lying, which meant he was just going to have to accept the praise as truth and deal with it later. "Thanks."

"Indeed." He could feel Cyclonus's fond amusement at his discomfiture. "Do you think that little exercise did anything for your confidence?"

Rodimus pretended to think about it. "I... yeah, I think so. But I think I might need some more practice." He grinned disingenuously.

Cyclonus laughed, and pulled him closer. "That could be arranged."

"Somehow," Rodimus murmured, snuggling gratefully against him, "that doesn't surprise me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I really wanted to do more with this concept but honestly this has taken me a week and it's way too long already. I might come back and edit it later, or just retry it altogether...


	10. Water-based sex - Galvatron/Cyclonus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galvatron/Cyclonus, for the prompt "Water-based sex". (Warnings: I cheated. It isn't water. Actually it isn't really sex either, there's just a bit of light petting and a lot of sensuality and sentiment, but eh, I write what the muses give me. Tactile-style and auraplay, rated... PG, I guess?)

X-Delta-Epsilon 833. A world too young, and too untamed, to have a name.

Haloed in hot gas and cosmic fire, buffeted by the solar winds streaming from the star codenamed X-Delta-Epsilon, planet 833 spun in an ecstatic, erratic orbit that sent it careening through showers of micrometeorites and skating dangerously close to other newborn worlds like itself. It was a lightning-torn, flame-ravaged, semi-molten ball of radioactive rock and slagged metals, its magnetic fields in unstable flux, its nascent continents heaving and cracking and colliding in an endless battle for dominance or mere survival. A thunderscape of reckless, exultant creation-change-destruction, 833 was millions of years away from even the possibility of supporting life of its own.

Life visiting it from elsewhere in the galaxy, of course, was another matter.

The Decepticon warship _Dis_ hung in an active-compensated approximation of a stable orbit above 833, its prow angled in-system, staring unblinking at the sun. Vast iris shutters were opened up wide, solar wind turbines turning in the streams of plasma pouring off 833's young main-sequence star, energon condenser arrays working overtime to pump freshly generated fuel into the warship's cavernous tanks. Beneath their vessel's shadow, on 833's unstable surface, the _Dis'_ crew were hard at work harvesting everything they could get their hands on. The Constructicons had zeroed in on a volcanic hotspot and pressed the rank-and-file Decepticons into helping them dig and drill and pump out tanks of molten silicate-metal blend, straining and splitting it to sieve out rare isotopes, precious metals, and exotic minerals. Scourge and his Sweeps, their sensory arrays capable of piercing through the storm of input from 833's convulsions and the barrage of outflung solar radiation, were scattered across the planet's surface setting up more energon condensers wherever they found a suitable site that wasn't about to collapse under their feet.

Outranking all possibility of being recruited into the mining operations and lacking the specialist hardware to join in the energon collection, Galvatron and Cyclonus had found themselves jointly at a loose end. Their practical role in this operation had ended with piloting the _Dis_ safely to orbit through the chaos of X-Delta-Epsilon's evolving solar system, and supervising the Constructicons and Sweeps was only interesting for so long. Bored, Galvatron had set off on a personal reconnaissance mission across the planet, and Cyclonus had perforce gone with him.

The warrior wasn't regretting it. 833 was the kind of challenge an elite flyer dreamed of. Over the blackened and molten-glowing terrain, an endless stormscape of ionised clouds roiled with constant lightning that crackled and fizzed intoxicatingly over his armour even as it scrambled his ranged sensory arrays and forced him to rely on the perilous immediacy of visual and tactile nav data. Rising above the storm, instead he found himself buffeted by supersonic winds that shredded themselves to ribbons in the planet's roiling, unstable magnetic field, streaming destabilising vortices from the tips of his wings and tossing him across the sky like a toy if he lost concentration or turbine thrust for even a second. Above the wind belt the upper atmosphere was a coruscating drapery of aurora flares in every colour of the spectrum, a never-ending lightshow through which he could occasionally make out the _Dis_ silhouetted against the blazing sky. He was being bombarded with radiation both mundane and exotic on a hundred frequencies, the wind was trying to rip his plating off his airframe, he couldn't let his attention slip for a microsecond; and for the first time in a long time he felt energised and reckless and untrammelled by the burdens of duty, exhilarated by the cosmic violence around him and with no objectives but to follow in his lord's wake and enjoy every moment of it.

How Galvatron was battling the impossible flight conditions without even the luxury of an aerial altmode to help him was a question unto itself, but by Cyclonus's observation there was little in nature that the Herald's raw power couldn't overcome if Galvatron so chose. He flew close on his lord's flank, diving with him as Galvatron plunged into a momentary break in the storm layer; 833's fiery surface was revealed beneath them, blue rivers of burning sulphur creeping over semi-molten black rock, lava welling through the cracks in the planet's half-formed skin. Multicoloured vapours swirled and streamed across the broken landscape. It was, in its fashion, profoundly beautiful.

Galvatron paused, hanging in the charge-thick air, looking down at the tectonic carnage below them in seeming admiration. Cyclonus transformed to join him, balancing on his antigravs. At least gravity was the one cosmic force that seldom suffered too much upheaval in conditions like these.

"Isn't it magnificent?" the Herald murmured, as quietly as he could speak and still be heard over the raging storm. His voice had that faraway, dreamy note of delight that it only ever held when he was contemplating the devastation of worlds - whether by his own hand, or through the workings of the universe's natural tendency to destruction. "Look at it, Cyclonus! This planet is a furnace - who knows what might be forged in it, a million years from now?"

He turned to his lieutenant, smiling. Plasma sparks arced briefly across the tines of his crown, a brighter flash against the constant, crawling atmospheric static that covered his armour. "We should come back and find out!"

The idea of scheduling a mission for _a million years from now_ gave Cyclonus a distinct sense of vertigo, but at the same time, he found himself inspired by Galvatron's casual certainty that they would still be functional enough by then to come and check on this planet's evolution. It wasn't scientifically impossible, by any means, but there were a lot of ways in the universe to go offline.

Apparently, Galvatron disregarded all of them. Of course he did. Cyclonus returned his lord's smile - and made a note in his scheduling software. "Indeed, mighty Galvatron." He looked down again at the burning, tortured world below them. "It _is_ magnificent," he agreed, entirely sincere. It truly was.

"Hmm!"

He knew that tone - Galvatron had seen something that arrested his attention. Cyclonus turned, trying to determine what it was that had caught his optics. The clouds were closing in around them again, thick and corrosive and filthy with particulates, but Galvatron was already dropping groundwards out of the storm layer and Cyclonus hastened to catch up.

Below them was an uneven line of rocky outcrops, each peak perhaps four or five times his own height, that curved in a rough crescent. Within its jagged arms, this natural formation embraced a complex of ridged and sunken ground that flickered with sulphur fires, blue flame licking over the rock. And in the deeper hollows...

"Plasma pools!" Galvatron sounded delighted. "Come on, Cyclonus!"

Cyclonus blinked. Galvatron wasn't wrong, he saw; but it was startlingly rare for that kind of high-density plasma, thick enough to pool like liquid, to form under an open sky. There must be some quirk of atmospherics and magnetics inside the arc of rock that was trapping the stuff, letting it gather in the depressions in the ground. The pools shifted and shimmered eerily, like some uncanny fusion of liquid, vapour and pure light.

And Galvatron was heading straight down towards them. Cyclonus hurriedly followed.

He landed at Galvatron's side, the hot black rock cracking under his weight even though he had touched down as lightly as he could. Galvatron was staring into the phosphorescent depths of the nearest pool, rapt in thought. "Remarkable," the Herald murmured. "I haven't seen anything like this since...!"

 _Since Thrull,_ Cyclonus mentally finished for him. Since the pit where Galvatron had spent half a year in near stasis as his systems slowly self-modified and adapted to the constant immersion in raw plasma, absorbing that notoriously ungovernable form of power and infusing it irrevocably into his frame and spark. A normal Cybertronian would likely have offlined from cumulative system damage in such conditions, but Galvatron had emerged stronger than ever - and seemingly quite content with his spontaneous upgrades.

And now here was another instance of the same vanishingly rare natural phenomenon. Thrull was gone, destroyed when Galvatron had blown it up to recalibrate his weapon systems as they were leaving, but apparently whatever strange conditions had obtained there also held sway in this obscure corner of X-Delta-Epsilon 833. Cyclonus looked curiously into the roiling shimmer of the pool. "My lord?" he queried carefully.

"Well," Galvatron said, "it has been a while!" And with that, he jumped casually down off the rock.

There wasn't a splash, which only emphasised that the stuff in the pool was by no means a liquid however much it looked like one. The plasma simply flowed and recombined around Galvatron's boots; another step and it was halfway up his thighs, as he stepped down from a hidden ledge beneath the surface. Seemingly unharmed by the ionised glow swirling around him, he turned, smiling, and held out his hand. "Come, join me!"

Cyclonus briefly wondered what the consequences of his inevitable obedience were going to be. His own armour wasn't quite so supremely universe-proof as Galvatron's; he sacrificed some durability for the sake of flight weight and his extensive mass-shift requirements. On the other wing, they were still forged from the same base template, and it wasn't as though _he_ was about to be soaked for the next half-year - if nothing else, the Sweeps would come looking for orders long before that. All of that flickered through his thoughts fast enough that he hesitated for only a microsecond before stepping down to join his lord.

It was entirely worth the risk just for Galvatron's look of pleasure at his compliance. And as the plasma lapped at his frame, his systems didn't report anything that he would class as _pain_. Rather, he realised, the stuff felt simply _warm_ , thick with charge and energy as it was. His electromagnetic sensors fizzed with sparkling static, scrambling his long-range perceptions but sending exquisite prickles of feedback through his subdermal sensornets; and he reached for Galvatron's outstretched hand as he stumbled, briefly unsteady on his feet.

Galvatron caught him easily, and his aura, amplified and glittering with ionised sparks like a nebula studded with stars, shocked against Cyclonus's own static-tattered fields and made him gasp in sudden, startled delight. It seemed Galvatron was quite literally in his element, his modified systems boosted rather than hampered by the plasma currents swirling around him and the storm of wild energy in the air. "Careful, Cyclonus!" the Herald said, laughing as his lieutenant faltered. "Watch your step!"

"My apologies, mighty Galvatron," he managed, with a shamefaced half-smile. He clung to Galvatron's hand when Galvatron didn't rebuff him, grateful for the support as his systems tried to process too much unexpected input at once.

"Perhaps you'd better sit down!"

Galvatron seemed entertained rather than annoyed by his discomfiture, at least, but... "My lord?"

"Here!" And Galvatron simply settled himself down, sitting on the unseen ledge at the side of the pool, submerging himself chest-deep in swirling, roiling, ionised light. Cyclonus heard his transformation cog click briefly as he folded his tailsight up close against his back, letting himself lean comfortably on the sharp, brittle rock of the pool's edge. "Like this!" he said, looking up with a smile and tugging on Cyclonus's hand.

The plasma was affecting his sensors enough as matters were. If he _immersed_ himself in it... but his balance was already half-gone, and he was too used to obeying Galvatron. He folded to his knees in the pool at his lord's feet.

For a moment, his entire sensory configuration was collectively overwhelmed. Sinking into the hot plasma felt like soaking in pure energy - and it was, to his considerable surprise, _wonderful_. The stuff flowed like a liquid but it shed like a gas, lapping against his plating and permeating his armour, yet dissipating into nothingness the moment he tried to shake it away from his fingers. It soaked through his transform seams like hot oil, slicked his circuitry and worked its way into his joints, and his sensornets rebooted and translated the sensation into a pleasurable, fizzing tingle that spread through every inch of his frame. His charge converters kicked in automatically, absorbing the profligate amounts of energy that washed over and through him, and he blinked in grateful surprise as his capacitor banks started spontaneously filling back up where the exertion of flying through 833's atmosphere had drained them. His joints unlocked, his tensor cables went slack of their own volition, and he sank down further into the pool. He was dizzy from the ambient electromagnetics and viewing the world through a silver fog of visual static, but those didn't feel like significant grounds for concern compared to _warmth_ and _charge_ and _comfort_. "Oh...!"

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Galvatron murmured, grinning delightedly at his reaction. "Do you like it?"

"I - yes, my lord, very much." He was still surprised, but the lack of any obvious damage warnings and the sheer pleasure of feeling so uncharacteristically warm and relaxed were winning him over by the moment. "I never imagined this would feel so... comfortable."

"Well, make the most of it while we're here, then!" Galvatron said. "Come here, sit down properly." He took a casual grip on Cyclonus's arm and tugged.

The touch would have sent a shock through him in any circumstances just because it was _Galvatron's hand on him_ , but here, it washed over his sensors like liquid flame. As he half-toppled sideways in utterly unthinking obedience, he realised dazedly that the ionised plasma was _conducting_ their EM fields. What should have been a momentary interference of Galvatron's aura with his own as their plating touched instead rippled outwards and became a full-body caress, fire-hot and silken, leaving him gasping in delight.

And he was given no time to recover from the sensation, as he was pulled to sit between Galvatron's knees, leaning back against Galvatron's left thigh with the plasma lapping up to his collar. He hastily folded his wing up so that he could settle in closer, where his lord apparently wanted him; he slipped his arm around Galvatron's midsection as far as he could reach, not least for support as his processors reeled all over again. _Overwhelmed, too much,_ heat and energy and light soaking into a frame grown so used to cold and hunger that it rarely even processed them as inconveniences any more; and above even that, the molten-gold ecstasy of being wrapped in Galvatron's aura and pressed against his plating and pulled _close_ like this...! He felt his optics dim and his own aura flared bright with bliss, washing back over Galvatron even as Galvatron's presence embraced him in turn. "Ohh... as you will, my lord." In truth, he wanted nothing more than to lower all his defences, offline his optics, rest his head against Galvatron's hand and stay here for as long as fate and his liegelord deigned to let him.

Galvatron laughed; but quietly, fondly. As though he had read Cyclonus's yearning thoughts, his left hand found its way to the back of Cyclonus's helm and rested there, caressing. "Relaxing, isn't it?" he murmured.

"Mmm... very, mighty Galvatron." Somewhere in the distance there was a deep, thunderous rumble of slipping rock, punctuating the constant but less-substantial peals of thunder that Cyclonus had already tuned almost entirely out of his awareness. The ground beneath him briefly shuddered, and he couldn't bring himself to be much concerned by it.

"And even more fun with company," Galvatron added, his tone sounding as lazily exempt from all temporal concerns as Cyclonus currently felt. "Who knew?" He idly ran his hand up the length of Cyclonus's left crest, strong fingers curling around the curve of sleek metal.

Cyclonus tilted his head back obediently into the touch, shivers of delight running down his spinal strut. Overhead as he looked up the toxic skies of 833 roiled and crackled with white light, weeping acid rain that turned back into steam before it could touch the scalding ground. The sweet fire of Galvatron's caress felt supremely in-place in this beautiful, brutal setting, and he ventured to turn and steal a glance at the Herald's face.

Through optics hazed by a silver snowfield of static he saw Galvatron looking down at him in fond indulgence, haloed by the play of lightning that cast the proud triple points of his crown in regal silhouette. The Herald looked, indeed, utterly at home here, enthroned amid chaos and crowned with wild power: a cosmic jewel placed, for once, in a setting truly majestic enough to be worthy of it. Cyclonus bit his lip for a moment, his spark moved beyond anything he had the words to express. _My lord, oh, my lord...!_

And Galvatron tilted his head a little, with a quizzical half-smile. "Happy now, Cyclonus?"

 _Happy_ fell vastly short, but it was easier to pour _worship_ and _trust_ and _bliss_ into his aura where Galvatron would be able to bask in them, than try to voice them out loud. "Entirely, my lord."

Galvatron laughed, softly. " _Good._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I swear I meant to write porn but the muses just wanted to chill out and have a moment together in the middle of planetwide armageddon, because that's their idea of fun. Might tackle this theme/motif again another time and try for actual porn, but for now I'm content enough with this.)


	11. In a car - Galvatron/Hot Rod

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galvatron/Hot Rod, for the prompt "In a car". (This is not the fic I intended to write for this prompt, and it breaks my no-sticky-no-humans rule for this challenge, oops; but it _is_ the final sequel to [Grab the Wheel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15684150/chapters/36533118) and [Like There's No Red Lights](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17100032) (latter requires an account to read because of some RPF elements, sorry!) Galvatron is temporarily stuck as a human here, so warnings include: **human sex** and explicit discussion thereof, masturbation, and a character getting mildly and accidentally triggered during sex (though this is not directly sex-related and is also quickly resolved). This story is not in continuity with anything I've written other than the two abovementioned fics. Sticky sex on the human side, tactile-only on the Cybertronian side, **rated explicit**.)

They'd taken the long way home.

Which was how they came to be parked at the top of Lookout Mountain in the dark, staring down at Autobot City rather than driving through its gates. Galvatron was, for once, sitting in silence, only the caressing pressure of his hand on Hot Rod's steering wheel communicating his feelings. Hot Rod decided discretion was the better part of getting petted, and stayed quiet in turn to soak up the Herald's touch.

The moment didn't last as long as he might have wanted (though, to be fair, forever was a long time). Galvatron shifted in his seat, almost fidgeting, and made a wordless, restless sound somewhere in the back of his throat.

"Mm?" Hot Rod prompted him. _Are you okay_ was a question you didn't put to Galvatron if you valued your circuitry, but Hot Rod had learned that non-coherent encouragement usually got a clarification out of him if anything _was_ wrong.

"Rrrgh... what's the human version of being charged up, and how do you fix it?! Ugh, I _hate_ this frame..."

He shifted again, and in the shadows of the cockpit, Hot Rod saw the movement of Galvatron's right hand dropping towards his pelvic region. If nothing else, at least human bodies had solid instincts. "It's... not actually that much different," he said, wondering how much detail he needed to go into. "I mean, human interfacing is _really_ weird but they've got some pretty good basic self-charging mechanisms... yeah, you've figured it out." He shivered at the pressure against his seat padding as Galvatron arched his back, a hiss of startled pleasure escaping between his teeth. "Just keep touching there and don't overthink it." He half-laughed, though it was mostly a cover for a moan. The thought, let alone the reality, of _Galvatron sitting in his driver's seat to self-charge_ was enough to make his processors spin with arousal of his own.

And it didn't look as though Galvatron was going to have any hesitation about continuing. He arched back harder as his hand explored his frame, groaning through gritted teeth, and an answering pulse of heat flushed through Hot Rod's circuits. He'd never had the privilege of seeing this before. The previous times he'd seen Galvatron aroused to the point of wanting to do something about it, he'd always been in a position to offer his own eager frame for the Herald's pleasure. He'd assumed that Galvatron could and did self-charge if the whim struck him, but Hot Rod had never expected a chance to actually _watch_.

He thanked Primus and his designers that he had a good quality visual feed inside his own cockpit. The low light was something of a hindrance to seeing detail, but he could still peer into the enticing shadows at the joining of Galvatron's thighs and see the flicker of movement there. And if he dialled up his passive infrared scanners for more precision, he could watch the flow of heat through Galvatron's body; so like the movement of charge in a mech frame, building in the core systems and at the lesser hot spots where major fluid lines ran close to the surface, pooling and pulsing in Galvatron's interfacing equipment and its associated internal hardware.

He wondered how it felt to Galvatron to even _have_ dedicated interface gear, given that all three Unicronians were missing that particular standard hardware in their natural forms. (Unicron had been an even bigger jackhole than the Autobots had given him credit for, Hot Rod privately felt.) He didn't dare ask; but he watched as Galvatron pushed his fingertips harder against the engorged, taut-strained bulge in the front of his jeans and groaned and then _squirmed_ , pressing his aft back hard into Hot Rod's seat padding.

Hot Rod couldn't help gasping at that.

Galvatron froze. For a dangerous moment his hand stilled and his eyes narrowed, lips curling back as his hyper-reactive threat detection protocols suddenly interrupted him in mid-pleasure. Hot Rod went very still. He wasn't a threat, he meant Galvatron no harm, but he knew from experience that saying so too quickly or fulsomely tended to escalate the Herald's paranoia rather than soothe it.

"Are you watching me?" Galvatron demanded. His voice was surprisingly quiet, but there was a taut, warning edge in it.

"...yes." Lying would not be a good idea no matter what. "And - and I can feel it whenever you move. Uh... sorry?"

"Are you getting charged up from this?!"

Hot Rod bit back a reflexive _you have to ask?_ Galvatron _did_ have to ask, because human frames _sucked_ and didn't have EM senses to speak of, so of course Galvatron couldn't feel the tingle of guilty desire still flickering hot in his aura. "Yes," he admitted. "I know, I know, wrong body, but I still know it's _you_ and you're _sitting inside me and touching yourself_ , I don't think I could _not_ be turned on by that. I always get charged up around you at the best of times."

 _That's what got you both into this mess in the first place,_ a voice in his thoughts reproached him, sounding entirely too much like Kup. Hot Rod stubbornly ignored it; and apparently he'd said the right thing anyway, because Galvatron relaxed against him and then reached out with his left hand to find Hot Rod's interior door handle. His fingers curled around it and squeezed until Hot Rod whimpered delightedly; that hurt _just right_ , Galvatron was far too good at knowing what would get to him. "Do you still want to watch?" Galvatron demanded.

"Hells yes." Hot Rod _had_ answered too quickly by anyone's standards that time, but _seriously yes please_. "If, uh, if that's okay."

"Mmmh." Apparently it _was_ okay, as Galvatron's fingers started to move on his own body again and he practically melted into Hot Rod's seat. His hips rocked up to meet his hand and then Hot Rod heard him curse quietly in frustration, followed by the small, distinctive sound of a zip being undone. Galvatron groaned with relief, and Hot Rod shivered at the pleasure in his tone.

He'd seen human interfacing equipment in both medical and erotic images, as part of his various cultural research, but this was the first time he'd seen a set of it in person. He didn't have a great view now, the shadows and Galvatron's unzipped jeans hiding a lot of the details, but he could see the way Galvatron's connector - all the human words for it were either clinical or crude, he fell back on the nearest Cybertronian equivalent - jutted firm and proud from between his thighs, its protective covering already retracted and the exposed tip showing pale against the darker skin of the shaft. By human standards Galvatron would be considered slightly better equipped than average, Hot Rod guessed, without being disproportionate to his frame. It was always difficult to judge organic aesthetics, and Hot Rod knew he was biased in this instance; but he was pretty sure that as human interface gear went, Galvatron's was gorgeous.

And Galvatron wrapped his fist around his exposed length, and instantly pressed up into his own touch with a gasp. Hot Rod felt an answering throb of charge through his circuits and tried not to squirm. This was why nobody normally interfaced in altmode, he realised abruptly: because his first instinct was to reach out and touch. _He_ wanted to be the one making Galvatron gasp like that, and short of extending manipulators out of his dashboard - which he was pretty sure would be more alarming than arousing - he _couldn't_.

He'd just have to watch and bear it. Galvatron ran his thumb experimentally over the tip of his connector, groaning low in his throat at the sensation, and in the moonlight through Hot Rod's windscreen he saw something glisten slick on Galvatron's skin...

...that was a point. "Uh, Galvatron?"

"What?" Galvatron sounded distracted, not to mention tense.

"Point of information, when human males overload they emit, uh, fluid from their interface gear. Only a few cubic centimetres, it's not a lot, but - I thought you might want warning about that." He resisted the urge to add _and please mind my upholstery_. He was killing the mood enough here as it was. Worst case scenario, he'd clean up back at Autobot City.

" _Seriously?_ Do these frames do anything _but_ leak?!" Yeah, definitely not doing much for the mood. " _Why?!_ "

"Organic data transfer, believe it or not." He'd been weirded out by the idea too - it was about as efficient as a non-wired species could hope for, but still bizarre. "The data's encoded as macromolecules and suspended in fluid for transmission. It's all reproductive stuff, so, uh, just please don't 'face any female humans while you're in this form, okay?"

Galvatron's face was a picture of disgust. "As if I would have _any_ interest in _that!_ " His fingers squeezed fiercely around Hot Rod's door handle, and Hot Rod felt his lasercore pulse speed up - was that response just Galvatron's distaste for humans talking, or was it an unspoken _I only want you_? He didn't dare ask, but his spark ached with sudden hope-

_-when had this started being about **that**?_

He shook off that thought quickly. He'd been avoiding the emotional implications of this whole situation for weeks, now was no time to surface from denial. "Glad to hear it," he said instead, hoping Galvatron's organic senses wouldn't pick up the microtremors in his voice, and then couldn't help a moan at that grip on his door handle. "Ohh..."

"Hmm?" Galvatron's eyes gleamed. "What?"

"You're touching me, what do you think?" Hot Rod breathed a laugh, relieved to feel the ever-precarious dynamic between them shift and settle back to somewhere where he knew what he was doing. "You're not the only one with too much charge in his systems."

"You've had one overload out of me already today, Prime!" But Galvatron's voice was a purr and his teeth showed white in his grin, and he let himself slide down a little further in his seat and _stroked_ Hot Rod's interior and Hot Rod whined at the touch. "It's my turn!"

"...whatever you say, Galvatron." His voice was definitely shaking now. "Go ahead, don't let me stop you."

"Mmmh..." Galvatron half-closed his eyes and started experimentally stroking his own connector again, strong fingers flexing on its length, his thumb tracing patterns over its tip. The temperature sensors in Hot Rod's seat padding registered a slight but measurable increase as Galvatron pressed himself back against the synthetic leather; his heels dug into the floor of Hot Rod's footwell, and Hot Rod moaned again. Human frame or no, every inch of Galvatron's body language was still _him_ \- the proud lift of his head as he tilted it back in the grip of rising pleasure, the flash of bared teeth, the thoughtless, shameless sensuality as he arched his back and pushed his hips up. The movement of his hand quickened; Hot Rod watched in infrared, shivering with empathic arousal. He could read the acceleration of Galvatron's heartbeat by the brightening pulse of heat through his connector and core systems, hear his need in the ragged tightness of his breathing. Wrong body or not, however much Galvatron might hate it, it was excruciatingly erotic from Hot Rod's side of things to have all of this happening _inside him_ and to be able to watch and _feel_ Galvatron's pleasure so deeply through his own frame _without being able to do a damn thing to help_...

Not that it seemed Galvatron needed any help. The Herald groaned through his clenched teeth, his whole body shuddering now with the rhythm of his strokes and the way he was snapping his hips against his hand; the motion transmitted itself to Hot Rod's frame and he rocked on his suspension, and oh _Primus_ he'd never known _that_ could be a turn-on but it _was_ , feeling his own body match his lover's rhythm without his even _doing_ anything. He didn't resist, eagerly letting it happen and watching Galvatron's face - seeing his eyes slip shut, the tension at his jaw finally unlock as his lips parted on a gasp that shaded into a moan. Oh, that looked so delicious, and Hot Rod was inwardly squirming all the way through his neural nets as Galvatron's other hand dug into the edge of his seat cushion. He had never imagined he could feel someone else's pleasure so intensely without even an aura contact between them, let alone a hardlink, and it was glorious and maddening and unbearable all at once. _Come on, Galvatron,_ he pleaded silently. _Please, please overload for me, please let me feel you come because this is **killing** me..._

Galvatron's lips curled back, baring his teeth, and his breathing was reduced to harsh rasps. His skin felt scorching hot where it touched Hot Rod's seat, even through his clothes. The movement of his hand was a blur, and he looked so close to the edge that it surely had to hurt. Hot Rod knew that Galvatron always found it difficult to overload, as his power requirements were so extravagant and his systems so heavily reinforced that getting enough charge into him for his capacitors to flash over was a major challenge; but usually, that wasn't something Galvatron seemed to regard as a _problem_. He always seemed to delight in being able to outlast Hot Rod even when Hot Rod was Rodimus Prime with the Matrix to help him, and to _enjoy_ getting charged up and staying that way. Hot Rod had known him to not overload at all during some of their encounters, and shrug it off with a laugh and a "maybe next time!"

Seemingly, in this human form, he had the same issue. Except that in human form it didn't look anything like so much fun, or so easy to shake off. Hot Rod could hear the frustration in Galvatron's ragged groans, feel it in the clench of his fingers; his body bucked and twisted against Hot Rod's seat and his eyes were closed and the look on his face was almost pain, and Hot Rod just wished he could _help_. Before he realised it, he found himself gasping his lover's name. " _Galvatron-_ "

-and to Hot Rod's shock and delight, Galvatron's spine snapped taut and he let out a ragged, desperate little cry of relief, and then his whole body shuddered and all the biosign scans Hot Rod was anxiously running on him lit up like an artillery barrage going off. White fluid splashed over Galvatron's fingers, bright-glistening in the moonlight - less of it than Hot Rod had feared, and he was fairly sure most of it had ended up on either Galvatron's hand or his shirt, but Hot Rod really didn't care at this point. If he had to wash organic overload juice off his own cockpit headliner later, so be it. It was a trivial price to pay for seeing that look on Galvatron's face and feeling the way he collapsed, exhausted and _sated_ , against Hot Rod's seat cushions... and for the knowledge that without even meaning to, he had _totally_ managed to help after all. "Galvatron," he breathed, again. " _Wow_ , that was incredible, I... wow. Uh, you still with me?"

" _Hhhh..._ " Galvatron was gasping for breath. His eyes were closed, his body limp. Sweat glistened on his face, and in the hollow of his throat left bare by the open collar of his shirt. "Hot Rod..." His left hand reached out, found Hot Rod's door handle again, and squeezed it tight. " _Mmm._ "

Apparently human overloads took more recovering-from than regular ones, too. Hot Rod squashed down every rogue impulse he abruptly felt to be _protective_. "Right here," he murmured. His own arousal seemed to have somehow drained out along with Galvatron's release; he felt almost like he'd hit some kind of short-charged empathic overload himself. His core circuitry tingled blissfully and his capacitor banks were holding steady somewhere around a comfortable forty percent, and he just wanted to wrap himself around Galvatron and hold his lover close.

But of course, in a sense there was no way you could hold someone closer than _inside your own frame_. He was almost glad Galvatron couldn't read his aura right now. He suspected it was doing some very embarrassing things. "Was that good?" he asked softly, after another minute had passed.

Galvatron opened his eyes, slowly, drowsily. Their pupils were blown wide in the dark, black swallowing up violet. He licked his lips and coughed before he spoke. "Yes, but does _everything_ in these bodies have to be so absurdly difficult?!"

...yeah, Galvatron was fine. Hot Rod laughed as quietly as he could. "I thought you liked a challenge," he teased.

"I do, but there are limits!" Galvatron looked at his own fingers. "You were right about the fluids, too," he added in disgust. " _Ugh._ "

Hot Rod's glove box clicked open. "Cleaning papers in there if you want them," he offered. His tone stayed carefully on the sympathetic side of neutral.

Galvatron didn't thank him, but did reach across and grab the pack of Kleenex that Hot Rod had nudged into view. A few moments later, he'd wiped his fingers, tossed the remaining Kleenex back in the glove box with a gunformer's absent-minded accuracy, zipped his jeans and pulled himself up in his seat. "Well?" he said. "Shall we go back to Autobot City and see if that ambulatory thesaurus of yours has made _any_ progress on the reversal machine while we've been gone?!"

Hot Rod choked as he desperately tried not to laugh too hard at that summary of Perceptor. That was painfully accurate.

Not to mention the sort of thing he might have uncharitably thought himself on occasion. He just wouldn't have said it out loud - and really, that was a perfect example of what was making this whole situation at once so hard and yet so easy. Despite the things some of the other Autobots had accused him of in the past fortnight, it really _wasn't_ just the interfacing that had gotten him hooked on Galvatron's company.

It was the moments when being around Unicron's Herald felt dangerously like hanging out with his own evil twin.

"Sure," he said, with a champagne-bubble lift in his spark and a betraying tremor of laughter still lingering at the edges of his voice. "Are you driving or am I?"

Galvatron grinned and reached for his ignition, and Hot Rod's engine purred in delight.


	12. Lazy morning sex - Galvatron/Rodimus Prime/Cyclonus/Scourge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galvatron/Rodimus Prime/Cyclonus/Scourge, for the prompt "Lazy morning sex". (Yes, this is full-on consensual polyamorous foursome fic. Something of a special for [raisedbymoogles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisedbymoogles/), who has been encouraging me for ages to take on the challenge of writing all of my OT3+1 together at once. Warnings: FLUFF. I am not kidding, this fic is definitely porn but it is also loaded up with Feelings and respect/trust/all that good stuff. Established relationship all round, fully and freely consensual; there's a certain amount of teasing and a couple of hints of D/s kink and captivity-fantasy, consensual-noncon type stuff, but seriously this is mostly just cotton-candy-sweet and I am entirely unrepentant. Tactile-style interfacing, rated M.)

When he blinked out of recharge, Rodimus Prime's first thought was that he had somehow woken from a dream into a dream.

He was not lying on his own familiar, plain berth in his spartan quarters in Iacon, or the slightly nicer one assigned to him in Autobot City. Those were both simple slab-and-rail recharge platforms, padded only as much as necessity demanded and efficiently just-big-enough for his frame. They weren't designed for comfort, let alone luxury, and they certainly weren't intended to be shared. But now, instead of waking beneath bland artificial light, he found himself bathed in the silvery glow of a clear and starlit void-black sky. His outstretched arm as he curled on his side wasn't trailing off the edge of his berth, but lying in a heap of soft, thick leadvelvet thermal coverings.

And he was _warm_ , deliciously, _decadently_ warm with a heat that was more than merely his own. A frame at least as big and heavy as his was draped behind and half on top of him, the other mech's hot, bright aura soaking through a layer of leadvelvet to bathe him in warmth even as the low, steady vibration of idling engines caressed his circuitry...

Rodimus remembered all at once that he wasn't dreaming.

 _Galvatron._ He looked down and sure enough, the arm wrapped possessively around his midsection had a violet gauntlet to which was attached a massive golden cannon whose length, for once not pointing in his direction, was half buried in the drifts of padding blocks and blankets that surrounded them. Rodimus let himself relax, melting beneath Galvatron's weight and heat. He dialled up his sensor gain to soak up all the warmth and pressure and vibration and the tingling ripple of Galvatron's fields meshing with his own, and tried not to think, not to move, not to do anything but lie still and enjoy this.

He was being _cuddled_. By the most dangerous mechanism in the galaxy, no less, but that was no reason for Rodimus to even think about wanting it to stop. His memory banks filtered through his recollections of the previous night - a blur of heat and pleasure and just enough pain to be intoxicating, all three of his lovers wrapped around him and taking their fill of him and each other until all of them, even Galvatron, collapsed together in exhausted, sated bliss. Rodimus had fallen into recharge so deeply and completely that he didn't even remember his processors shutting down.

But he was still _here_ , and that was almost better than everything that had happened the night before. Waking up like this, in the Unicronians' luxurious berth and with Galvatron draped over him with such casual, assured possessiveness, always reassured him that he was more than merely a toy to them. Being held like something precious by the most terrifying mech he'd ever known was, in its way, the deepest comfort he could imagine.

Better yet, now he was alert enough to sort out energy signatures and engine notes from each other, he could tell that Cyclonus and Scourge hadn't left the berth either. He turned his head just enough to look across the recharge floor in their direction.

He didn't have to look far. Galvatron's lieutenants were nestled together as tightly as he and Galvatron, Cyclonus sprawled face-down with Scourge on top of him and nuzzling into his shoulder. They too were half-buried in more thermal blankets, and close enough that if he and Cyclonus both reached out they could have clasped each other's hands. Rodimus's first impulse was to do just that, but he wasn't entirely certain whether Cyclonus was awake.

As though the other mech had read his mind, Cyclonus lifted his head from where it had been shielded behind his arm, crimson optics flickering online bright and narrow beneath the elegant scrollwork of his superoptic ridges. His gaze locked with Rodimus's, open and unabashed, and his stern lips quirked in a small, fond smile.

Rodimus grinned back, and - carefully, not wanting to disturb Galvatron - reached out his hand. Cyclonus reached back without hesitation, and his strong grip curled firmly around Rodimus's fingers. His thumb brushed across the back of Rodimus's hand.

Rodimus shivered blissfully. Being blanketed in Galvatron's aura and stretching out to touch Cyclonus was like lying in sunlight and dipping his fingers into shadowed water; the warrior's energy fields had a cool, silvery depth that contrasted deliciously with the scarred and ever-fluctuating bright heat of Galvatron's. He squeezed Cyclonus's fingers, and had the pleasure of seeing Cyclonus's smile widen and almost imperceptibly soften.

He hadn't had a plan. He hadn't been trying to start anything, he'd simply reached out on instinct. But he quivered to the tips of his spoiler when Cyclonus shifted position carefully, pulled Rodimus's hand closer, and kissed the backs of his fingers. He swallowed down a squeak as pleasure tingled sudden and sweet through his sensornets. //Cyc-!//

//Mmmm?// Cyclonus's radio voice sounded so blandly innocent, as though he had no idea what effect the teasing brush of his lips was having. Only the gleam in his optics gave him away as he kissed Rodimus's fingers again, this time with the slightest flicker of his glossa into the bargain. Rodimus tensed, the tiny, subtle caress so deliciously intensified by the fact that he was _trying not to react-_

He felt as much as heard the pitch of Galvatron's engines shift as the warlord startled awake behind him. The powerful arm resting across his midsection tightened its grip, an instinctive reflex that sent flickers of fire racing down Rodimus's backstrut. He was all too addicted to Galvatron's possessiveness, to feeling so utterly and inexorably _wanted_...

Rodimus sometimes wondered whether he'd live to regret that particular weakness, but thus far he'd yet to be sorry for it. He eagerly pressed himself back into Galvatron's embrace, yielding to that commanding touch. "Mmh?"

" _Rodimus._ "

Galvatron's voice was a low, seductive murmur against his audial, and Rodimus shivered all over again. "Ohh... Galvatron? What-?" He could feel his lover's engine-resonance right through him and it was making him want to melt and whimper and _beg_ Galvatron to do all kinds of wicked things to him - and just to make it worse, he felt Cyclonus too shiver with desire where their fingers were still intertwined, even as the Unicronian lieutenant lowered his gaze in deferential greeting to his lord.

"Did you two _start without me?_ " There was an edge to the words, but Rodimus knew Galvatron well enough by now to hear the difference between real anger and teasing in his tone. "Cyclonus!"

"My lord?"

" _What_ are you doing with my Prime?"

"-nothing, my lord." Cyclonus sounded just guilty enough that Rodimus knew Galvatron wouldn't miss it.

And indeed, Galvatron didn't. "Nothing? Interesting kind of _nothing_ , I can feel his struts quivering from here!" He laughed softly and lowered his head for a moment to nuzzle at Rodimus's audial again - Rodimus obligingly quivered with renewed fervour. "Well, whatever it was, carry on, since he seems to like it!"

"By your will, mighty Galvatron." Cyclonus offered a slight nod, the best he could manage in lieu of his usual military bow while lying flat on his front, and drew Rodimus's hand back to his lips.

Rodimus whimpered when, instead of simply kissing his fingers again, Cyclonus _licked_ the backs of his knuckle joints - and then, without breaking optic contact with him, took the closest of Rodimus's wrist-mounted gun barrels into his mouth. Sparks shot through Rodimus's sensornets and his grip clenched on Cyclonus's hand as the warrior sucked on the slender chrome tip of his weapon and teased its open muzzle with his glossa; Cyclonus let out an amused, satisfied rumble of a purr at his reaction, but Rodimus felt the echo of arousal that shimmered through his fields in turn. "Oh... oh, Cyc, please..."

He'd felt guilty, what seemed like a lifetime ago now, for being sensitive _there_. It was awkward enough being an Autobot with built-in, Sigma-granted weapons to start with, given the Autobots' proclaimed ideal of universal peace; when, as Hot Rod the newspark, he'd discovered that touching them felt wonderful and sent his charge levels soaring, he'd been so ashamed he'd never tried to do it again. He hadn't told anyone, just kept it as a secret close to his spark.

Except that, their very first time together, Galvatron hadn't _needed_ telling. His hand had gone unerringly to Rodimus's gun barrels, tracing their length with charge-slicked fingertips, and Rodimus had made an utterly shameful noise and Galvatron had grinned in wicked delight and _kept doing that_ until Rodimus was shuddering and gasping with pleasure in his arms. Sensitive weaponry was nothing to be ashamed of by the Unicronians' standards, and Rodimus had learned under their hands to be grateful rather than guilty for his secret weakness.

Especially when one of them was so blatantly exploiting it, _ohh_. His capacitor banks, already comfortably full from an uninterrupted recharge cycle, throbbed hotly at Cyclonus's teasing. "Please..."

"You want something, my Prime?" Galvatron murmured, disingenuous.

Rodimus twisted around to look up over his own spoiler, meeting his lover's hot-glinting optics. Galvatron was grinning at him, _playful_ , and Rodimus shivered happily. "You," he managed raggedly, and then, feeling daring, "...all three of you. Please?"

Galvatron smirked, pretending to consider the request; but the pulse of heat through his aura promised that he at least was more than willing, and Cyclonus's feelings were clear enough in the way his glossa was now teasing the gap between Rodimus's gun barrels. That left only one of his lovers yet to offer an opinion-

Rodimus felt razor-sharp claws brush against the side of his forearm, trailing dark flickers of charge in their wake. He gasped and looked around to find Scourge watching him over Cyclonus's shoulder, the tracker's lips curled in a crooked, knowing grin. Rodimus grinned back at him, a warm thrill of happiness expanding through his spark. _All three of them..._

And Galvatron laughed. "Very well, then!" He leaned down. Rodimus turned to look up at him, and Galvatron captured his lips in a sweet, searing kiss.

"... _mmmh_." If Rodimus had been warm before he was _glowing_ now, lit up from the inside by the heat of Galvatron's mouth on his and the star-bright taste of plasma fire and charge slipping down his throat like high-grade oil. He squirmed, pressing himself back against Galvatron as closely as he could; there were still several layers of thermal blanket sandwiched between their frames, but the thick leadvelvet rubbed wonderfully against his armour and he moaned delightedly at the sensation. //Oh... Galvatron, yes...//

//There, my Prime.// Galvatron growled softly into his mouth, making Rodimus shiver. He wasn't quite comfortable, his head turned at an angle that was straining his neck and shoulder rotators to the edge of their tolerances, but the resulting hint of tension through his frame somehow only intensified the sweetness of being held like this beneath Galvatron's weight and strength.

He knew he wasn't really the Unicronians' helpless prisoner, but somewhere deep in his spark, he liked the fantasy that he was. And right now, with Galvatron on top of him and both Cyclonus and Scourge idly toying with the bits of him they could reach, they were indulging his secret kink to the hilt even if it was by pure chance. He whimpered in delight when Cyclonus bit down on the tip of his gun, sharp dental ridges scratching his chrome; Scourge's claws slid up to tease his elbow joint, their points working into the narrow seams in his armour to drip little tingles of sweet static into his gears and servos. Rodimus moaned as crackles of power arced between his internal components. Oh, that was so good, it was like being caressed _inside_ his armour and the sheer intimacy of it was as wonderful as the pleasure-feedback through his deep sensornets...

//Enjoying yourself?// Galvatron asked playfully, still licking greedily into Rodimus's mouth.

//Mmmh - you're evil, all of you are evil, I love it.// He twined his glossa with Galvatron's to tug it deeper into his throat, wanting to feel as thoroughly possessed and dominated as he could get. //This is fantastic.//

He felt as much as heard Galvatron's engines kick up a gear at that, their vibration resonating through the warlord's frame like a full-body growl of approval. // _Good,_ // Galvatron told him. //I see you're as insatiable as ever, my Prime...//

// _I'm_ insatiable? Come on, you started this.// Rodimus was aware that sucking on Galvatron's glossa and squirming under his weight wouldn't lend much conviction to those words, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

//And _you_ begged for all three of us to go on!//

He could feel Galvatron's grin against his lips, as their mouths briefly half-separated only to seek each other out again in the next moment. Stars and glory, the Herald knew how to kiss. Rodimus could gladly lie here and trade glossae with him all _day_ if Galvatron didn't get bored first. //I _asked_ ,// he protested. //You can't say that was _begging_.//

Over the radio link, Galvatron laughed. //It will be by the time we're done with you!//

Rodimus shivered as arousal shocked through his circuits, well aware that Galvatron was more than capable of making good on that threat. //Yeah?// he gasped, defiant all the same. //Go ahead and try...//

The cruellest thing Galvatron could have done at that point was to _stop_ kissing him, which was probably why Galvatron did exactly that. "Cyclonus!"

The warrior raised his head, letting Rodimus's gun barrel slide out of his mouth and making Rodimus whine protestingly at the sudden loss of contact. "My lord?"

"What are you doing all the way over there? Come here at once." Galvatron unwrapped his arm from around Rodimus to gesture imperiously. "And you, Scourge!"

Scourge's optics widened, but he disentangled himself quickly from the thermal blankets to move closer. Galvatron sat up enough to release Rodimus, and reached out to grab his tracker by the arm and pull him in. Scourge gave a muffled squeak of surprise.

Cyclonus laughed quietly at his friend's discomfiture, but had his primary attention on Rodimus, who looked up at him hopefully. "Hot Rod?" he murmured, offering his hand.

Rodimus felt a whole different kind of warmth flow through his frame at that. "Yeah?" He squirmed his way out of the blankets enough to crawl to that outstretched hand, and found himself gathered up in Cyclonus's arms.

He relaxed instantly, nuzzling against Cyclonus's mouth and whimpering when he was lightly, teasingly kissed. Cyclonus's aura was cool and silky-sleek on his sensornets and Rodimus loved the contrast between him and Galvatron, wanted both of their energy signatures inside him, his lovers' power layered like strata through his own capacitor banks as they gradually filled him up. Cyclonus's hand ran over his chestplate in a slow caress, silver static dripping from his touch, and Rodimus arched up with a moan. "Mmh, Cyc..."

"Here." Cyclonus pulled him closer and hooked his leg over Rodimus's thigh, his foot nudging Rodimus's legs apart as it settled between them. It wasn't nearly enough to hold Rodimus down if he had chosen to resist; but the _implication_ of restraint was there, and Rodimus squirmed under it in delight. Being held down and _forced_ , even so gently, to accept pleasure from any of his lovers short-circuited his natural tendency to think too hard in the berth and let him guiltlessly enjoy whatever they decided to do to him, and he loved it. He arched his back, tossing his head with a moan as Cyclonus nuzzled at his shoulder and slid his hand lower, fingertips brushing as if by accident over the edge of the panel on Rodimus's flank that concealed his interface cables and port banks...

A muffled whimper distracted Rodimus's attention just enough to make him look around. Galvatron had shifted to kneel on the recharge floor, shrugging off the entangling blankets. Scourge was now lying sprawled back with his head in his liegelord's lap, looking up with wide optics and shivers running through his fields as Galvatron grinned down at him. The Herald's right hand reached down to trail static-sparks over the inner curve of Scourge's wing; the first two fingers of his left hand were in Scourge's mouth, which explained why Scourge had sounded quite so incoherent. Rodimus grinned to himself, knowing Scourge would be loving that, even as a pulse of envious desire throbbed through his core circuitry. He knew he didn't _need_ to be jealous of any of his lovers, they'd all get around to him eventually just as they did to each other, but it was hard not to feel a twinge of covetousness whenever any of them were doing anything that he wasn't immediately part of.

...maybe that _insatiable_ taunt of Galvatron's had been deserved after all, he thought ruefully. Then again, the three of them had been playing with each other since they were sparked, it wasn't his fault if he felt like he had some catching up to do. He reached up and ran his hand up Cyclonus's arm, resolutely turning his attention back to the Unicronian he _did_ have immediately accessible, and tipped his head hopefully.

Cyclonus met Rodimus's gaze, crooked a smile, and then leaned in and kissed him. Rodimus opened his mouth and accepted gratefully, responding with an answering trace of his glossa over Cyclonus's lips; the warrior tasted cold-sweet as nuclear fire by contrast with Galvatron's plasma heat, and he kissed with a discipline and self-control that did nothing to hide his genuine desire. Rodimus moaned softly, happily, arching up into Cyclonus's embrace and clinging tighter. There was a scrape of metal on metal as their chestplates pressed together, and he could feel the steady, strong pulse of Cyclonus's lasercore even through the two thicknesses of heavy armour separating it from his own. "Mmm..."

He got an answering murmur of pleasure from Cyclonus for that, and he shifted his hand up further, to the side of Cyclonus's helm and then caressing up the length of the sensor-laden crest on that side. Cyclonus shivered and tilted his head into the touch, kissing Rodimus deeper; Rodimus licked eagerly into his mouth, encouraging, trying to be a bit more of an active participant than he had until now. Primus, how had he ever gotten this lucky... there were times he felt like he could gladly ditch duty, responsibility, his faction, the Matrix and everything else his destiny had saddled him with and just be the Unicronians' berth toy for the rest of his existence.

Although, as his capacitor gauges pinged him a red-edged _ninety percent_ warning, he did consider that the rest of his existence would feel like a very long time if he didn't get a few good overloads over the course of it. He squirmed against Cyclonus, and then gasped into the warrior's mouth as a strong hand slid down the midline of his spoiler and sent shivers of pleasure resonating through his whole frame. "Please..." he managed, breaking the kiss and letting his desire and charged-up discomfort bleed into his aura by way of a hint. _Stop teasing me, dammit, I need-!_

"Hmm." Cyclonus gave him a considering look, deadpan but for the gleam in his optics - as though he wasn't even warmed up despite the arousal Rodimus could feel shimmering under the silver-slick surface of his fields, _where did Cyclonus get his self-control from?_ "My lord?" he queried, turning to look at Galvatron.

"What - ah." Galvatron could clearly read the situation at a glance as he looked around from petting Scourge, who was visibly trembling under his touch. "All right! Come here, Rodimus." He slid his fingers out of Scourge's mouth - Scourge let his head fall back into Galvatron's lap, panting and licking his lips, optics hazy-dark with pleasure - and reached over to Rodimus.

Cyclonus let him go and urged him towards Galvatron, Rodimus tried to just go where he was wanted, and he ended up sprawled flat-out on his back between the two of them. Galvatron looked down at him with a laugh, seemingly pleased at the sight of him lying there helpless. Cyclonus exchanged a glance with his lord - Rodimus still sometimes couldn't tell when the two of them were using private radio, and when they really could communicate with just a look - and nodded, and moved to stretch himself out close against Rodimus's left side. Rodimus slipped a hand around to his back and clung, grateful.

And then Galvatron nudged Scourge out of his lap, with a murmured command that Rodimus didn't catch, and moved to lie against Rodimus's right side, pinning the Prime firmly in place between himself and Cyclonus. Emphatically distracted by the mingled wash of their energies across his already quivering sensornets and the way both of them were looking hungrily down at him, Rodimus didn't realise where the third Unicronian was until a taloned hand teased its way up his thigh, nudging his legs apart so that Scourge could settle his weight between them. Rodimus gasped at the warm-dark wash of Scourge's aura over his plating, mingling deliciously with his wingmates' contrasting signatures - the three of them were so different and yet somehow they _matched_ , and the combination felt amazing.

Scourge lowered his head and nuzzled Rodimus's hip, even as that clawed hand reached higher and found Rodimus's hand in turn. Rodimus gasped and hitched his hips up into the touch and wrapped his fingers hard around Scourge's, and the tracker squeezed back, wordlessly reassuring. Rodimus shivered and tried to relax, despite being outnumbered and already in danger of being overwhelmed body and spark. _All three of them..._

He'd asked for this. He _trusted_ them, ridiculous though he knew that would sound to anyone who didn't know the Unicronian triad like he did. And they weren't even being rough with him, this was _play_ ; but in its own way that very fact made his situation all the more intoxicating. He knew everything they were capable of, knew how ruthless and how unspeakably dangerous all of them could be, knew that his life and spark hung by the conjoined thread of their affection for him and his trust in them...

...and they were _honouring_ that, and he wouldn't have changed a thing if he could. He tilted his head back, looking up at Galvatron with optics darkened in desire, shivering at the wicked, knowing grin he got in return. "Please...?"

"Shh." Galvatron licked his lips, dipped his head, and kissed Rodimus again.

Rodimus didn't _quite_ overload on the spot, but it was a near thing. His focus fragmented and scattered; all of his lovers with their hands and mouths and weight on him at once was more than he could keep track of, pushing him halfway out of his own processors into a daze of heat and light and pleasure even as his sensornets crackled with static and charge and _bliss_. Galvatron's mouth pressed to his and Galvatron's hand tracing the midseam of his chestplate; Cyclonus biting at the tip of his spoiler, sending pleasure and tension singing through the metal there and making him whimper desperately and clutch at the warrior's shoulder; Scourge scratching shadow-static patterns down his thigh and licking at his interface array, _when had he even opened that panel,_ not that it mattered, _oh..._ His vocaliser was being muffled by Galvatron's glossa in his mouth but he could still open up his radio link to the three of them and beg over that, // _please, yes, more, oh Primus don't stop, need you so much...!_ //

//Got you,// he heard Scourge whisper back to him, quick and quiet and comforting, and the tracker's fingers gripped tight around his. Sharp claws scratched the back of his hand and he moaned gratefully, clinging equally fiercely in return - and he wasn't _sure_ , but he suspected Cyclonus's free hand was somewhere on Scourge's wing to judge by the way Scourge abruptly shivered against him, surprise and desire flickering hot in his fields. _Ninety-eight percent,_ capacitance warnings flashing danger-red in his optical display, and Rodimus tensed with a desperate, keening whine that was lost against Galvatron's lips...

...and then Galvatron broke away and lifted his head. His fingers still dug into Rodimus's chestplate hard enough to scrape paint, but he was looking across Rodimus at his lieutenant, optics gleaming hot. "Cyclonus!"

Cyclonus looked up instantly, turning his head to meet Galvatron's optics, and Galvatron leaned in, right across Rodimus, and kissed _him_.

Rodimus had seen this before, but it blew his processors every time. One moment Cyclonus could be perfectly calm and controlled and toying with Rodimus like he could keep it up for a week, and then Galvatron would touch him and he'd just _unlock_ , his aura patterns melting into liquid bliss, his optics dimming and his whole frame relaxing in a single wingtip-to-wingtip shiver of slackening cables and released servos. The shift from dominance to submission was so quick and so complete that Rodimus would swear he'd heard Cyclonus's transformation cog click somewhere in the middle of it, and no matter how often he saw it happen, it was awe-inspiring to witness.

And possibly the hottest thing in the galaxy, which was probably why Rodimus's relay controls decided that _now_ would be a good time for him to dump all that charge he'd been stockpiling since he came out of recharge. Rodimus felt heat and power well up inside him from what felt like the very centre of his spark, and he gasped and moaned and arched his back in shameless ecstasy as the sensation rose and rose and flooded through him and then broke free in a shimmering cascade of spilled charge that poured out over his plating and grounded itself in crackling arcs to all three of his lovers, the earth rails in the berthroom walls, and every other nearby conductive point it could find. He cried out, shaken to his core, clinging desperately to all of them as his aura flared white-hot and merged itself pleadingly with theirs - _yours, oh, yours, please-!_

He'd pulled Scourge, at least, with him - he felt the tracker tense and then shudder with release, his charge arcing to mingle with Rodimus's as he buried his face against Rodimus's midsection and his claws dug hard into Rodimus's thigh. Cyclonus gasped and shivered and _almost_ went over, but must have been a couple of percent short of his own flashover point, left poised on the edge with his engines racing and his whole frame shaking against Rodimus's.

And Galvatron flung up his head and _laughed_ \- exultant, _gleeful_ , seemingly more delighted at watching his collected playthings come undone for him than he would have been at getting to overload himself. _Typical,_ Rodimus thought with a flash of affection, through the hot-golden haze of pleasure that enveloped his processors. Give Galvatron a choice between pleasure and power and he'd choose power every time.

Still, one thing Rodimus had learned from the Herald in the first place was that sometimes the correct response to "either/or" was "both", and he was fairly certain he could handle another round if that was what it was going to take to get Galvatron - and Cyclonus - off too. He rebooted his optics and looked up at Galvatron, his processors still spinning slightly and his cooling systems running flat-out, giddy with post-overload high. "Whoa."

"Still with us, Prime?!"

"Course I am." He grinned up at his lover. "I mean, that was incredible, but we're not _done_ , are we?"

Galvatron looked down at him in surprise that rapidly shifted to delight. "Absolutely not!" he agreed, and pounced on Rodimus's mouth again. Rodimus dimmed his optics, tipped his head back, and briefly considered all the things he probably should have been doing with his day besides making out with his nemesis.

He decided, on sober and considered reflection, that absolutely all of them could wait.


	13. Against the wall - Cyclonus/Scourge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Cyclonus/Scourge, for the prompt "Against the wall". Direct sequel to Chapter 7 (and Chapter 1), with encouragement from an anonymous commenter who said Cyclonus and Scourge deserved to do it for real. I couldn't agree more, anon, so here we are. Warnings: Consensual kink between friends. D/s, light pain play, and a bit of emotional sadism but nothing they can't both handle. Background OT3+1, briefly referenced Galvatron/Cyclonus and implied Galvatron/Rodimus. Tactile-style interfacing, rated M.)

Galvatron came back in an ebulliently good mood. Much to Scourge's relief.

He wasn't in the base command centre when Galvatron walked in, but he didn't need to be. He watched from a private corner of Charr's ruins, seeing with ranged vision as precise as direct sight. Galvatron came in grinning and full of energy that wasn't all his own, the flame-bright prints in his scarred golden aura as blatant as transferred paint to Scourge's senses. He greeted Cyclonus with an echoing cuff to the shoulder and a fierce, fond smile, leaned in to murmur something to his lieutenant that Scourge resisted the inevitable temptation to overhear, and reclaimed operational command of the base, dismissing Cyclonus to wherever the warrior pleased to go. Cyclonus bowed to him as formally as ever, but turned away smiling.

That was a distinct relief as well, at least to Scourge. He knew Cyclonus had been aware of Galvatron's plans as much as he had, but he'd still been nervous that Cyclonus wouldn't take it well when this particular scheme played out. It was reassuring to see his suspicions unfounded.

He watched Cyclonus duck out of the command centre and pause outside under Charr's dark sky, looking around him. The warrior's aura was a silver haze against the shadows of Charr's endless twilight, bright with energy and heightened emotion. Scourge felt something knot up in his circuitry at seeing his friend like that; poised, alert, charged and ready and _beautiful_...

His radio clicked. //Scourge?//

The call wasn't a surprise, but hearing Cyclonus's voice still made him jump guiltily - and his sensornets tingle with longing. //What?//

//Where are you?//

//Here.// Scourge pinged him a mapping marker. //Third floor of the old armoury.// They were still nicknaming Charr's ruins one building at a time, taking guesses at what they had once been or speculating on what they most resembled. //Where do you want me to be?//

//Stay where you are, it's as good as anywhere.// Cyclonus pinged an ETA in reply and Scourge watched as he transformed and took off, starlight breaking over the sharp edges of his armour. The warrior flew a swift and accurate path through the ruins to the armoury, banking and twisting with all his usual grace between the ancient, jagged stone walls, and Scourge tracked him for every astrosecond of his flight.

Until Cyclonus came in through the armoury's missing wall to land on the sheared-off floor at his back, at which point he pretended to be looking out of the window in the other direction. Scourge didn't quite have optics in the back of his head, not in the literal sense, but his radar and infrared detectors were multi-axial and his hearing was pinpoint accurate. He didn't have to turn around to watch Cyclonus transform in a rippling haze of shifting heat, or to hear the whine of powerful aero thrusters cut out to be replaced by the deeper, quieter thrum of Cyclonus's root mode engine. He didn't need to look to feel the cold-silver tingle of Cyclonus's fields brushing the outermost edges of his own, bright and taut with leashed tension.

The contact sent a thrill of longing through him, and he didn't make much of a hand of keeping it out of his own aura. He really, really hoped Cyclonus was here with the intentions that Scourge suspected he was. "Was everything all right?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual and still not turning around.

"As if you weren't watching," Cyclonus retorted, his tone low and amused. "Of course it was." He paced closer, the tiny shockwaves of his footfalls brushing shivers over Scourge's plating. A couple of steps away from touching range, he paused, and Scourge just managed to bite back the noise that wanted to slip out of his vocaliser - his friend was _right there_ , voidsilk fields merging like a caress with Scourge's own, so close that Scourge could _feel_ the deep pulse of his core engine through the few metres of thin air between them. "...Scourge, do you want something?"

All right, he hadn't been hiding it all _that_ well, but then again, he hadn't really been trying. "Maybe," he said, as though that noncommittal word would in any way belie the desire skeined all through his aura or the tautness in his frame. "Why, do you?"

"I did say we could both go off duty when Galvatron came back, as I recall."

"You might have said that." The tension between them _ached_ , but that was how it was supposed to feel. Both of them pretending that they had no stake in the conversation until one of them crossed the line. "What about it?"

Cyclonus growled, and then he closed the last distance between them in two long strides and his hands landed on Scourge's hip and the back of his wing, and Scourge gasped and could do absolutely nothing to suppress the sudden shock of charge down his spinal strut and through his fields as he was shoved hard into the wall with Cyclonus's substantial weight against his back. " _Scourge..._ "

His armour scraped roughly on ancient stone. His claws flexed, carving white-edged grooves into the wall as his fingers clenched. "Yes," he managed, and it wasn't a question, just an unconditional _yes, please, this._

"Mmm..."

Cyclonus was all silver heat and rough hands against his back, charged up and ready, and Scourge quivered underneath him because it was the best feeling in the universe to be wanted like this. He shifted his feet apart and let his knee joints unlock, sliding down the wall as he melted into his best friend's touch. Sharp dentae nipped at the edge of his collar, and Scourge whimpered at how good it felt and how utterly frustrating it was. He was a prisoner of his own design parameters in this position; even when he turned his head, the high collar that formed his altmode's gun turret casing stopped him from doing more than look pleadingly over the top of it at Cyclonus.

He tried that, at least, and got shivers all over again at the sight of Cyclonus looking back at him over the collar's edge. The warrior's optics were narrowed and hot with focused lust, his dentae bared, and Scourge shuddered and tried to push back to get closer to him. His sensornets ached with desire, _wanting_ Cyclonus on every frequency and spectrum they could get him.

And Cyclonus pressed his hips in and pushed his knee against the back of Scourge's, pinning him harder against the wall with just the right amount of calculated contempt. Scourge squirmed, ashamed of how hotly and eagerly his frame responded to the rough handling. Void take it, did he have _no_ pride?

...not with Cyclonus, who was he trying to fool. Cyclonus could do anything to him and Scourge would take it greedily, just as Cyclonus would joyfully accept anything from Galvatron, that was just how they were. He panted, still desperately trying to twist around even knowing it was useless. He wanted to kiss his best friend so badly it hurt, and it just wasn't possible from this position and the burn of unmet need only intensified every other sensation. "Nnh-!"

"Mm... you like this, don't you, Scourge?"

Cyclonus's voice had just a suggestion of mockery in it, and that tone felt like having his spark shields opened up with a laser scalpel and Scourge almost whimpered. "Never said I didn't," he managed, even as his engines kicked up a gear and his aura pulsed with a wordless, helpless _yes_. Being so clearly seen, vulnerable like this and _teased_ for it, would have had him flinching away from anyone else; but he trusted Cyclonus with everything. "But I don't hear you complaining either."

And that startled a quick but genuinely affectionate laugh out of Cyclonus, and _that_ was why he never minded Cyclonus's cruelty; because when it came down to it, they _were_ best friends and Cyclonus _did_ care, however well he could hide it when he wanted to. Any weakness Scourge showed to Cyclonus would stay between the two of them, and that made it safe to shiver and arch back against his friend and let his greed and need spill over undisguised in his aura and the whine of his engines...

"Why would I complain," Cyclonus growled against the edge of Scourge's collar, "at having you exactly where I want you?" He shifted his hand on Scourge's hip and ran two fingertips teasingly around the edge of the thruster vent mounted there, and Scourge gasped. In root mode his thrusters did nothing, they were disabled and purely decorative, but they were still sensitive as only control mechanisms could be. The ringing glide of Cyclonus's fingertips along the sharp rim of the thruster collar was perfectly judged to send splinter-shocks of pleasure through him, and on instinct he snapped that thruster's protective iris shutter open.

Scarlet metal furled back; and Cyclonus made a small sound of surprise but instantly slid his fingers _in_ , caressing the heat-burnished metal inside the throat of the vent pipe and teasing the outer collar with his thumb at the same time. Scourge shuddered so hard that his wings rattled audibly against Cyclonus's chestplate, even with his friend's weight pinning them in place. " _Oh-!_ "

"Shh," Cyclonus murmured, _almost_ comforting even as he continued to explore that one small sensitive spot on a frame whose every micrometre was currently desperate to be touched. Scourge writhed in pleasure and need, secure in the knowledge that he could struggle all he liked but he wasn't going anywhere.

Not that that was necessarily _all_ good right now because he would have given anything to be able to turn around and touch Cyclonus _back_ , to kiss his friend and pull him in close. His claws ached to sink into Cyclonus's heavy armour; he let them flex and cut into the wall under his hands instead, moaning at the pressure through his fingertips and the sensation of Charr's crystalline blue-grey stone resisting and then crumbling as he scratched at it. It felt good and he did it harder, fingers clenching - pure hardwired pleasure-feedback, the neural nets that spread from tip to root of his claws responding automatically to the stimulation they were getting. He was _designed_ to enjoy ripping things to pieces with his bare hands. Blame that on Unicron, wanting to make sure his creation would always be quick to use the weapons he'd given it...

...Unicron had made _all_ of them sadists, Scourge thought briefly and gratefully as Cyclonus's dentae nipped sharply at the top of his collar again even while his fingers continued to probe inside that open thruster vent. "Hhh - Cyc, _please!_ "

"Mmm?" How did Cyclonus sound like this wasn't even _affecting_ him, when Scourge could feel his wingmate's lust and charge and pleasure hammering his sensornets like an ion storm in deep space? "What do you want, Scourge?"

 _I want to overload. I want to kiss you. I want to put my claws in something that isn't dead rock and will cry out when I hurt it, preferably you._ "...more."

"Hmh." Cyclonus didn't say _yes_ , but his aura flickered warm with reassurance, just for a moment. He slipped his fingers out of Scourge's thruster vent, shifted his position a little, and reached between their bodies, between Scourge's wings.

Scourge tensed and arched back, shuddering, an almost frantic moan escaping him as Cyclonus pressed his fingertips _there_. He didn't even know why that one treacherous spot on his plating was as responsive as it was. It was well hidden, just above his pelvic section and underneath the projecting block of his back armour, buried between the mounting plates that supported his wings - but for some reason, being touched on those few square centimetres of his armour sent lightning-shocks through his entire frame and short-circuited his pleasure centres until he was a gasping, trembling wreck, and _of course Cyclonus knew exactly where it was_. " _Aaaah-!_ Dammit, Cyc, don't..."

And because being scrupulously observant in matters of consent was sometimes the cruellest thing it was possible to do, Cyclonus paused and half-withdrew his hand. "No?"

He couldn't reach that spot himself, and Cyclonus knew that perfectly well. If Scourge wanted it touched he was going to have to say so out loud, now. There were moments when Cyclonus was _too_ good at this. "Don't stop," he managed, turning his head to press his helm against the cool stone of the wall in desperation. "Cyc, _please_ just touch me, go on..."

And Cyclonus relented enough to murmur his name and run his glossa over the back of Scourge's collar, teasing-sweet, and _then_ he put his fingertips back in the good spot and Scourge writhed helplessly as his sensornets crackled with exquisite, totally unjustified pleasure. " _Nnh_ , oh, that's it, _there_ , please, more-!"

His capacitors pulsed, filling up unreasonably fast as Cyclonus traced little fingertip circles over excruciatingly sensitive metal, arcs of glitched charge snapping up the length of Scourge's backstrut. Blue light shimmered across the planes of his wings, stray charge starting to seep out of him as his systems ramped up towards overload; Cyclonus turned his head and licked the edge of Scourge's left wing, glossa tracing through the rippling energy currents there and making Scourge yelp with dizzy pleasure. His chemoreceptors were flooded with the scent of hot metal and scorched oil as his core temperature spiked hard; his cooling systems whined pitifully, outmatched by the combination of his own desire and the additional heat of his wingmate's tangibly aroused frame sandwiching him against the wall.

And on top of that, Cyclonus wasn't just _touching_ that sensitive spot, though the circling, teasing pressure of his fingers was wonderfully relentless. He was using the miniature static-generators built into his fingertips to pump little bursts of charge into Scourge there too, tiny shocks and jolts of pure pleasure that sent crackles of sensation flaring all the way to Scourge's wingtips. " _There,_ " he growled, softly, and Scourge briefly thought he was going to overload just from hearing Cyclonus speak to him in that tone. "More?"

He was torn. If he said _yes_ then Cyclonus would _keep doing that_ , overload him ruthlessly while he was pinned face-first to the wall and couldn't reciprocate with so much as a kiss, and that thought almost made his circuits melt. On the other wing, he _wanted_ that kiss, wanted his best friend in his arms and pulled close into the curve of his wings...

As usual, in the end he evaded the responsibility. "You're the one doing all this, why - _hhh!_ \- are you asking me?"

Cyclonus laughed, fond, _unsurprised_. His fingers pressed hard into that sweet spot and he shot another jolt of charge through them to snap against Scourge's already crackling sensornets. His other hand reached around the jutting edge of Scourge's collar and his fingertips found Scourge's mouth, and Scourge opened greedily for him with a gasp of surprise that was muffled instantly as Cyclonus pushed those fingers in, and- "Come for me."

Scourge didn't stand a chance. His capacitor banks strained, pulsed, and flashed over, power flooding his systems and pouring out of him in a storm of lightning-blue fire. He cried out, the sound half stifled as he bit down on Cyclonus's fingers - Cyclonus snarled but his energy-laden fields pulsed _pleasure_ back in reply, satisfaction and dominance merging together. He didn't overload in his turn, despite soaking most of Scourge's spilled charge; showing off his self-control and his cycling depth at once, Scourge knew Cyclonus could hold more charge than he could but did the other Unicronian have to make it look so _easy_...

He squirmed against the wall and Cyclonus as the initial burst of pleasure ebbed, engines slowly spinning down from high gear, still sucking on Cyclonus's fingers and not wanting to stop. That had been delicious, but sharp-edged and ragged with need and desperation; rough and sweet and _good_ , but he still wanted more. He ought to be satisfied. He ought to be _grateful_ , but if Cyclonus called that done and left him, Scourge was going to hate his life for at least the rest of today. Sometimes just getting to overload was nowhere near enough.

Cyclonus rescued his fingers with a firm tug, Scourge's glossa slipping free of them with as much resistance as Scourge could manage to put up. The warrior made a small, thoughtful sound and stepped back. His aura was dangerously calm all of a sudden, giving nothing away.

Scourge clenched his fist, claws biting into his own plating. He didn't dare to move. The chill of Charr's thin air struck his back where his wingmate's warmth had rested a moment before.

_Don't leave me. Don't. That wasn't enough._

"Scourge?"

Cyclonus's voice was low, neutral. Scourge cleared his vocaliser with a quick cough of static and tried for the sake of what was left of his pride to match his tone. "What?"

Cyclonus laughed softly. "Turn around."

Scourge did - awkwardly, trying not to clip his wing on the wall - and was just in time to see his best friend's optics glow hot with a smile that hadn't made it to his lips, before Cyclonus stepped in, pushed him into the wall again, and kissed him.

" _Mmh!_ " Scourge opened his mouth and tilted his head up instantly as Cyclonus leaned down to his height. Cyclonus tasted cool and sharp-sweet and bright as moonlight, laced with the hot trace of plasma and carbon that never went away because Cyclonus spent too much time kissing _Galvatron_ , but Scourge was never ever going to complain about _that_. Certainly not when Cyclonus was kissing _him_ now, deep and so sweet and still ruthlessly controlled, pacing himself and forcing Scourge to do the same. Scourge moaned desperately and wrapped his arms around his friend, furling his wings around the two of them as far as he could, draping Cyclonus in the shadow-shimmer of his own aura. Reaching up, he pressed his claws into Cyclonus's back and slowly, forcefully dragged them down.

Metal ripped, armourglass screeched, and Cyclonus arched back into the pain with a hedonist's grace. The sound he made into Scourge's mouth was quiet but utterly satisfied, _aroused_ , and he relaxed his aura lockdown protocols so that Scourge could soak up the pulse of spark-deep delight that his actions had elicited. // _Mmm_... do that again.//

That was definitely Cyclonus's _that's an order_ voice. Scourge shivered and complied, careful to move his hands so that he wouldn't hit the same sensors twice, his fingertips throbbing with pleasure at the pressure on his claws even before he got the treat of lapping up another of Cyclonus's little moans. The sweet scent of freshly-torn metal tugged at his senses, awakening hardwired predatory instincts and sending a sharp flare of nameless hunger through him. "Like that?" he asked, daring to pay Cyclonus back just a little in his own coin.

" _Yes,_ "Cyclonus murmured, and Scourge knew that was all the thanks or praise he was going to get but it felt like more than enough. He carried on, scratching pleasure-and-pain into his wingmate's sensornets, feeling the heat of Cyclonus's arousal soaking into his frame and moaning eagerly as he was caressed in turn. Most of his more sensitive spots were laid bare for touching in this position, and Cyclonus knew all of them and oh, _yes, yes, so good..._

And then Cyclonus pinned him firmly with a knee against his thigh and reached to touch the inner curve of his left wing, and Scourge's whole frame shuddered taut with pleasure. There was another of those inexplicable sweet spots hidden low on his wing towards its base and Cyclonus found it with merciless ease and started to pump charge into his sensornets _right there_ , and _oh_ void yes just a little more of that and he was going to overload again. He moaned and let his wing twitch against the wall with a ringing scrape of metal, and desperately stretched up to steal another kiss. //Oh... Cyc, _please..._ //

//All yours,// Cyclonus murmured, with another deep pulse of power into him, and Scourge's entire complement of sensory wiring seemed to curl and spark under his armour like burning steelmesh as he came deep and hard.

It always hit smoother and sweeter the second time. All his neural pathways were already open for the flood of charge, a swelling and then bursting rush of sensation that had him moaning in bliss against Cyclonus's mouth. His claws curled in a slow, hard clench that pierced his friend's plating and made his fingertips ache with pleasure.

And Cyclonus groaned, sparkfelt, shuddering and arching his back as he let his own overload take him in turn. His charge spilled in glittering arcs of silver to mingle with Scourge's, and Scourge almost melted entirely at feeling his whole frame bathed in his friend's familiar energy signature even as Cyclonus clutched at his hips and pulled him closer. //Ohh-hhh-hhh... Cyc...//

// _Scourge..._ // Cyclonus let his weight settle as his overload released its grip on him, pressing Scourge firmly against the wall. Scourge held tightly to him and didn't stop kissing him, and for a long, long moment they simply held each other like that, soaking in the dissipating haze of power around them and tasting each other's mouths as thoroughly as they could. Neither spoke. Words were not for moments like this. It was enough to feel satiety and trust and wordless loyalty in each other's auras, and willingly echo all of it back.

"Mmmh," Cyclonus murmured at last. He drew away slowly from the kiss, but didn't step back.

Scourge looked up at him, optics wide, still trying to soak up his presence on every spectrum in existence. He could feel the electrostatic traces under Cyclonus's armour where his charge had flared through his plating, lingering echoes of pleasure.

 _I helped do that._ He tucked that thought into core storage, right beside his spark where it belonged, with so many other memories just as sweet. "Mm?"

Cyclonus smiled a little; and then he did move, but only to drop to sit on the floor with his scuffed and scratched back resting against the cold stone. He tugged Scourge's arm and Scourge moved obediently, settling down at his side. Cyclonus shifted to let Scourge tuck his wing into place and then leaned back against it, with no comment as to whether a wingmate's armour felt better on his wounds than barren rock.

Scourge suspected it did, but didn't comment either. This happened, sometimes, afterwards; the two of them would simply settle into silence, still touching, until one of them found cause to speak. Scourge tilted his head back a little, and looked up through the remains of the roof above them at the stars. He felt Cyclonus, beside him, do the same.

It was comfortable, and comforting. And so, so much easier than finding the right words.


	14. Danger kink - Galvatron/Scourge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Galvatron/Scourge, for the prompt "Danger kink". I really wanted to write something for this particular pairing because it's by far the rarest of the Unicronian ships, so here we are. Scourge thinks he's a coward, and most of the time he's not wrong, but he can be surprisingly brave when there's something in it for him. Warnings: background OT3 dynamics, D/s and rough play, all consensual. TW for hunger/starvation (everyone is dangerously short of fuel and it's plot-relevant, basically) just in case that's a trigger for anyone. Tactile-style interfacing and a bit of wireplay, rated M.)

As he made his way wearily up from docking bay one, Scourge was grateful - not for the first time - that the _Dis_ kept its internal environment empty, dimly lit, and quiet.

The last few days had been more of a drain on his resources than usual, and that was saying something. Between a failed raid that had fallen apart thanks to an unexpected Autobot intervention, getting shot in the process of fighting off said intervention, having to take over emergency navigation on the way home when the raiding party hit an interstellar dust storm so severe that nobody but him could see through it, and feeling cold all the way to his struts as his systems ticked over on an amber fuel warning, he was exhausted and in no mood for the kind of casual raucousness that was the rest of the army's comfort zone. He was only grateful it was his turn to go and recharge. Maybe that might let him feel a bit less hungry and cold for a while...

He and Cyclonus had a shift system worked out between them. At any given moment, unless events supervened, one of them at least would be awake and on duty on Charr - fifty percent of the time, both of them would be. The remaining fifty percent was split between them by sections so that one could recharge while the other ran the base. It was the most efficient way to ensure both that the troops were continuously supervised and that Galvatron would have at least one of his lieutenants available at all times - since, of course, Galvatron should be free to do as he pleased at any hour of the shift pattern and always have someone trustworthy at hand to facilitate his least whim. Cyclonus had been firm about that, and Scourge hadn't been inclined to argue since it was pointless trying to hold Galvatron to a schedule anyway. Galvatron's personal maintenance cycle was distinctly eccentric; he only needed about half as much recharge time as his lieutenants, and tended to take it in erratic naps at random intervals rather than in standard timing blocks.

Which was why Scourge wasn't surprised when he dragged himself into the _Dis'_ recharge room and found Galvatron already there.

He tried to be unobtrusive as he slipped into the chamber, but Galvatron had the kind of auto-alerts that made a mockery of even his stealth skills. The warlord's optics flickered online, crimson-dim in the dark as he raised his head from amid a pile of padding blocks. Powerful engines idled, their tenor hum thrumming resonance against Scourge's wings and armour. "Mm... Scourge?"

His voice sounded drowsy and relaxed, but Scourge still knew better than to speak carelessly. "Uh, yes, mighty Galvatron?"

Galvatron threw back a couple of thermal blankets and extended his hand. The great cannon on his gauntlet glowed dimly golden in Scourge's extended visual range, haloed with power, its metal glinting as it caught the starlight. "Come here."

For once the words sounded more like an invitation than an order, but Scourge wouldn't have considered demurring either way. He climbed onto the knee-high recharge floor and crawled through the drifts of blankets and padding to Galvatron's outstretched hand.

Blessed warmth welcomed him, along with Galvatron's approving smile. Ache-tight cables and reluctant gears unseized in relief as he found himself inside the fireglow aura of raw heat that Galvatron always gave off. Even when he was as hungry as the rest of them, the bonded plasma power that overclocked Galvatron's systems meant that he threw heat like an open flame. Touching him could burn, especially if you were already weakened or low on fuel yourself - but being close to him was bliss.

Scourge instinctively curled his wings inwards a little to catch more of that heat, the glow of Galvatron's power beating against the infrared detectors in their sensitive inner sides. "Mmh... my lord?"

" _Here._ " Galvatron caught his hand and tugged, his meaning clear: _closer. Lie down with me._

Scourge twisted around and flopped obediently onto his back, shifting so that the padding beneath him would mould to fit around his frame. Galvatron moved in turn, settling himself against Scourge's side, hooking his knee over Scourge's thigh and casually pinning the top of Scourge's right wing to the berth with his forearm. He pulled a blanket haphazardly over both of them, and looked down at Scourge in satisfaction. "That's better!"

It really was, if a little intimidating. Scourge huddled close against his lord, his systems pinging cascades of relief at the sudden influx of heat and the pure physical comfort of being so casually but thoroughly _touched_. "Much better, mighty Galvatron... thank you."

"Hmh." Galvatron ran his hand over Scourge's chest, lazily proprietary, his touch warm and bright and wonderful as it came to rest right above Scourge's chilled lasercore. "You're cold, Scourge..."

"Just tired, my lord," Scourge explained hastily. "...and hungry," he dared to add more quietly.

"Well, take _that_ up with the Autobots, aren't we all!"

Scourge jumped at the brief crack of Galvatron's temper, but that flare of anger wasn't really aimed at him. A single ember snapping in a banked fire - this time, at least, nothing more. "I would have if I could," he muttered, resentfully. Being shot down by that wretched Autobot sniper had briefly disabled him until one of the Sweeps had managed to get to him and reconnect a couple of vital wires, and he'd missed half the fight and any chance of revenge.

"Are you fully repaired?" Galvatron demanded, clearly thinking about the same thing.

"Yes, my lord." He still wasn't happy about having been shot in the first place, but a grudge was hardly going to hinder his combat efficiency.

"Excellent! Because I'm planning another raid, and this time I guarantee they'll have no idea where we are until it's too late!" Galvatron's voice pitched upwards in bloodthirsty anticipation, his optics flaring bright. "Enough fuel for all of us, for the next month! How does that sound, Scourge?"

"Wonderful, my lord." It really did, and his empty tanks ached in anticipation. He hoped Galvatron was right about this plan being foolproof... and more importantly, Autobot-proof. Sometimes he could swear there was a spy in the Decepticon ranks, the way their missions got interrupted so often.

"Good!" Apparently satisfied with his reaction, Galvatron grinned down at him - and idly caressed him again.

Scourge twitched, and tried to pretend he hadn't. Galvatron had been recharging when Scourge came in, he probably wanted to get back to it now they were seemingly done talking, and if the best Scourge got out of this situation was getting to recharge for a while with Galvatron using him as an extra bit of berth padding, well, that was more than enough to ask for. Just because his oversensitive neural nets ached so deliciously at a casual touch, didn't mean that Galvatron had meant anything by it or owed him a damn thing-

He was still trying to argue his opportunistic instincts into submission when Galvatron leaned down and kissed him.

"Mmmh-!" All right, _that_ wasn't open to interpretation. Galvatron's kisses never were: hot as fire, deep and fierce and _focused_ , and always with that instinctive dominance that stamped everything the Herald ever did. Scourge's core programming took over and he buckled in instant surrender, arching his head back and opening his mouth for Galvatron's glossa; his chemoreceptors pinged him with a flood of data, _heat_ and _sweet_ and the black taste of carbon like licking the muzzle of a freshly-fired gun. Despite his exhaustion and hunger he felt his engines spin up desperately in response; he really couldn't spare the fuel to be this turned on, but try telling that to his pleasure drive right now. He whimpered imploringly and did his best to kiss back.

Galvatron's hand slid over his chest and up to his shoulder, his thumb brushing the sharp edge of Scourge's collar. At this close range, the power that ran through Galvatron's systems was enough to pull an induced answering current through Scourge's circuitry; the sensation crackled beneath his armour and followed like an echo wherever Galvatron's touch passed over him, completely outside his control, and it felt wonderful. Scourge reached up, around the cannon, and clung to Galvatron's arm tracks for support.

The heavy steel treads there were inactive when Galvatron was in his root mode, but Scourge could still hook the tips of his claws into the narrow gaps between them and Galvatron still growled against his mouth in response, a shimmer of pleasure flashing through his fields like light on water. The flaring heat of his aura soaked through Scourge's plating where their frames pressed together and Scourge couldn't even bring himself to be ashamed of the noise he made, that was _too good_ and he'd gladly whimper all Galvatron wanted if it meant that this wouldn't _stop_...

To his relief, stopping apparently wasn't on Galvatron's mind. Another deep, hard kiss, sharp dentae nicking at his lips; the top of Galvatron's thigh pressed up against his pelvic strip, pinning him more firmly in place. A strong hand sliding lower to play with the slatted vent panel on his midsection - those thin, blade-sharp strips of metal were intensely sensitive at the best of times, and Scourge shivered so hard that all of them rattled at once as Galvatron flicked at them teasingly with fingertips that trailed storm-blue sparks. "Ahh! Galvatron..."

"Hmmm?" Galvatron's look was all playful wickedness, fond and amused at his reaction all at once. "There, my Scourge, my tracker, my loyal one... do you want more?"

His hand traced back upwards as he spoke to graze the Decepticon badge just below Scourge's throat, barely touching his paint and still tying Scourge's sensornets into a pulsing, aching knot of ecstasy. Galvatron's fields were so much stronger than Scourge's own that the warlord's caresses could tear holes in his aura, briefly disrupting his internal electromagnetics, and the result was a unique flavour of excruciating pleasure that he was still trying to invent a word for. "Yes... please, mighty Galvatron..."

Galvatron laughed, his optics bright with delight and his dentae flashing briefly in a grin that made Scourge's knee servos feel weak and he wasn't even standing on them. "Good," he murmured. He hooked his fingers behind Scourge's beard, tugging his chin up.

Scourge bit his lip, unresisting but trembling nonetheless. The grip on his jaw made him vividly aware of how very much he was at his lord's mercy; and the barrel of Galvatron's cannon was now right beside his head, and his cranial circuits fizzed with static at having the great weapon's EM fields close enough to interfere with them. He let out a squeak of something very close to panic as he looked up at Galvatron, optics wide. He wasn't Cyclonus, he couldn't trust without holding something back, he couldn't _not_ be afraid - and he knew consciously that Galvatron was aware of that and still chose to reward rather than punish him, but the fear was still there every time because _how could anyone be this close to someone so dangerous and not be afraid-_

He didn't dare try to keep any of his emotions out of his aura, so Galvatron knew what he was feeling; but the Herald only looked down at him for a moment with a considering expression. Scourge blinked. "My lord?" he ventured, very timidly.

Galvatron ran his thumb over Scourge's lips, smiling as Scourge instinctively parted them in response. And then, holding Scourge's gaze, he pressed that thumb firmly into the tracker's mouth.

Scourge whimpered at the jolt of complicated pleasure that snapped down his backstrut. If this had been Cyclonus, he would have bitten in retaliation; but it was Galvatron, so he just sucked obediently and licked at the sensor pads in the tip of Galvatron's thumb, his optics dimming even as he shivered at the touch. Galvatron pushed deeper, dominating him utterly with nothing but that one little gesture, and his powerful frame resonated against Scourge's with the approving growl of his engines. "Hmm? You're trembling, Scourge," he teased softly. "Are you afraid of me?"

//...I would never dare to insult you by not being, mighty Galvatron,// Scourge managed. //But please don't stop.//

Galvatron laughed, warm as though Scourge had just confided a secret to him. "You spend so much time being afraid I sometimes think you enjoy it!"

Scourge winced slightly at that. //I don't _try_ to be a coward, my lord. I just - am.// Shame prickled in his fields for a moment, because for all it was true he still wasn't proud of it. //But you're brave enough for all three of us.//

"Mmmm." Galvatron fairly purred, arching into the words as if they were a physical caress. Praise and adulation were the warlord's sweet spot as surely as pain was Cyclonus's, and Scourge felt an answering warmth echo through him at Galvatron's reaction. At least there were a few things he knew how to do right. "But you really don't need to be, Scourge. As long as I'm here, you're safe from everything else!"

 _Everything but me._ Scourge shivered again, feeling Galvatron's words drawn over his spark like the blade of a knife against his fuel lines. //I know, mighty Galvatron,// he whispered, acknowledging both the spoken and unspoken promises. _I'm more afraid of you than of anything else in the universe except maybe Unicron himself. But I belong to you, and I want to stay..._

"You're mine, Scourge," Galvatron breathed, lowering his head to whisper the words in his audial. It felt like having his mind read. _How did Galvatron do that?_

It should terrify him, to fall within the compass of Galvatron's iron-gloved possessiveness like this. It _did_ terrify him, in its way; but at the same time it felt like being prized, being _worth_ something and not merely an afterthought or an expendable pawn. He could dig up a lot more than his usual allowance of courage in exchange for that. Not to mention that as long as he was _Galvatron's_ he couldn't be claimed by anyone or anything else without Galvatron descending like the Voidbringer's own wrath on whoever _dared_ , and that thought comforted the part of him that was constantly afraid of being enslaved again. Galvatron didn't rule like that. He might snap orders and rage at incompetence and discipline his followers with his fist as readily as his glossa, but - unlike some things out there - he would never try to strip Scourge's will or deny him ownership of his own mind and frame. There were lines that even at his most unpredictable, Galvatron didn't cross.

And for that, he had Scourge's allegiance with no coercion required. "Yes," he whispered, his voice shaking. "I am, I'm yours... Galvatron, please..."

"Shhh." Galvatron's fingers had found the hidden sweet spot at the base of his left wing, and Scourge gasped as golden heat melted through him and left him trembling with longing. "Didn't I say I'd take care of you?"

"I know you will, mighty Galvatron," Scourge managed. "I trust you..." The pleasure was finally starting to drown out all the anxious overthinking that came too naturally to his hyper-alert processors, and all he wanted was to spread his wings out in surrender and let Galvatron keep touching him like that. He could accept the helplessness of it for the sake of the lack of any kind of responsibility - as long as Galvatron was in control and liked it that way, then Scourge didn't have to do his own thinking and risk screwing anything up. He could just cling and whimper and offer Galvatron his willing submission in exchange for touches and attention and the hot-sweet pulse of charge filling his capacitor banks, and he squirmed gratefully as his lord caressed him.

Until the amber warning light he'd been trying to ignore blinked to red. His engines faltered, his perceptions blurred, and the wonderful tight sensation of an impending overload abruptly receded. "G-Galvatron? Wait... please..."

"Hmm?" The corners of Galvatron's mouth crooked downwards and his optics narrowed, but he instantly stopped what he had been doing to the sensornets in the roots of Scourge's wing. "Changed your mind, Scourge?!"

"No! Never, I swear, but... my lord, I'm out of fuel. If I overload now I'm going to stasis-lock. I _can't_ , I..." He faltered, and then added in a whisper, "I want to, though."

" _Hmmh._ " Galvatron frowned down at him, but nodded understanding. "In that case-!" He reached without hesitation for the latches of Scourge's chestplate. "Open up for me."

Scourge obeyed, optics wide. Galvatron mirrored the action, and light filled the shadowed space between them as both their spark housings were bared.

Sparks were supposed to be a bright, pure, and steady-burning blue-white flame. At least, that was the nature of those conferred by Primus, but Unicron's forges had their own parameters. Scourge's sparklight was a muted midnight blue, flickering with a constant play of shadows; Galvatron's was red-gold wildfire, crackling at its edges with black lightning. Scourge made a small, muffled sound of awe and longing as Galvatron's energies washed over his exposed circuitry. Plasma burn might sting on his sensornets, but the promise of heat and power drew him like magnet to steel.

And Galvatron reached _into_ him, and caressed his lasercore shielding with fingertips slick with dripping charge. Scourge squirmed, moaning helplessly and louder than he had meant to - Galvatron's touch _there_ made his spark flicker and race even as it set his sensornets quivering all the way to the tips of his wings. Greed gripped him, stronger than any lingering fear; he licked his lips, his spark craving pleasure as desperately as his systems craved fuel. "Galvatron? Please..."

Galvatron tapped commandingly on the armoured secondary cover below his spark shields. "And this!"

"Hhh - yes, my lord." Scourge unlocked the cover, and Galvatron flicked it back with an impatient fingertip. 

While the Unicronians had very few access points of any kind in their warbuild frames, they still had basic linkage arrays: the Cybertronian-standard hardpoint sockets and cables that gave access to their charge distribution systems. In the event of a serious injury or critical system failure, a life support feed could be connected through the sockets; if an overcharge somehow occurred, output cables allowed power to be drained off safely rather than via the uncontrolled release of a full-frame overload. These were nothing so elaborate as the lighter, more sophisticated charge-and-data connections that Cybertronian mechs used for pleasure, and they lacked the corresponding neural connections and software. They were heavy-duty backup systems, purely functional, intended to be used only at true need.

Which, well, Scourge supposed that hitting redline on his tanks and being on the brink of stasis lock counted as. That didn't change the fact that when Galvatron pulled a finger-thick connection lead from under his own array cover and pushed it firmly into Scourge's primary input socket, it felt so excruciatingly wonderful that he nearly passed out anyway. Everything tripped at once, circuit breakers and autonomic relays reacting in shock to the sudden overwhelming rush of charge. The power flow between them arced in a jagged spike of current, faltered, then stabilised at full force. Scourge cried out, arching up so hard he almost bucked Galvatron off him; Galvatron snarled and flung his weight down to hold him still, kissed him ferociously, gripped his shoulder so hard that Scourge felt his armour crack.

He didn't care. All that mattered was the glorious surge of heat and power deep inside him as Galvatron's charge poured into his capacitors. Systems that had been in power-saving mode for the last three lunar cycles startled alert, flooding his processors with even _more_ data that was mostly a thousand variations on _oh void yes that's good please don't stop_. He shook in Galvatron's arms, drowning in his lord's power, utterly overwhelmed; Galvatron growled against his mouth in delight, seemingly not even weakened by the additional drain on his own systems. Scourge writhed beneath him, capacitors filling from a cold and rapidly-falling sixty percent to a hot, pulsing, desperate ninety-eight-

//It's all right, Scourge,// Galvatron murmured, without taking his glossa out of Scourge's mouth. //Overload for me.//

// _Oh-!_ //

It was one thing to have his lord's energy print echoed in his own systems from induced current or shed charge absorbed through his armour. It was another entirely to overload on Galvatron's charge directly instead of his own. For a wild, glorious moment he felt suspended in mid-air, immolated by a flood of red-golden fire, his spark's shadows erased by Galvatron's blinding light. Actuators and tensor cables locked; he tried to scream, but his cry was swallowed into a whimper by Galvatron's mouth covering and claiming his. Every system he had emptied at once, reset, and instantly began to fill again from the backwash of spilled charge and the hardlink connection that Galvatron still hadn't closed. His sensornets pulsed ecstasy on every frequency he had receptors for.

And for that one moment he wasn't afraid of _anything_. It was impossible to feel fear or doubt with that much power inside him; for a single splinter of time, he saw the galaxy through Galvatron's optics and _no wonder the Herald was the brave one of them_. His lord's spark signature and energy patterns merged with his own, freely granted and shared: all of Galvatron's wild courage and self-assurance, the scars that he wore like battle honours, the quicksilver blend of impatience and enthusiasm and bloodlust and wrath that made him the unpredictable, glorious terror that he was. He could feel the absolute confidence with which Galvatron had shouldered the not-inconsiderable risk of attempting to power both of them off his own reserves, the Herald's certainty both that he could take it and that Scourge was _worth it_ , and he didn't even know what to do with that other than cling close in gratitude. His claws dug into Galvatron's flank so hard that he winced as he felt metal tear under his grip.

But Galvatron _laughed_ at the pain and kissed him again like he'd done something right, and Scourge didn't argue. He just dimmed his optics and kissed back and took every touch and every drop of power Galvatron was willing to offer him, holding onto this for as long as he could possibly keep it. Until at last Galvatron cut the power feed and pulled the hardlink plug out of him; and even then, he was still wrapped in the dissipating haze of energy-overspill shimmering between them and the loss didn't really hurt.

He blinked, belatedly, as he realised the red fuel warning had flicked back to amber. Somewhere in all of that, his internal converters had managed to grab enough power to turn some of it back into energon. His systems were still only just ticking over, but at least he felt a great deal better about it than before.

Galvatron closed up Scourge's linkage array cover and then his own, folding his glacis plate shut to finally cut off the red blaze of his spark-light. Scourge hastily followed suit, not wanting to seem _that_ greedy, and Galvatron looked down at him with a smile. "Better?!"

"...definitely, my lord." He dropped his gaze, almost ashamed of how much he'd enjoyed that now that he could think again. "I... thank you."

Galvatron shrugged off the thanks. "You needed it! Now stay here and recharge, do you hear me?" He unhooked his knee from around Scourge's thigh and sat up in a quick, energetic movement, apparently none the worse for the amount of power he'd just burned through.

"You're not staying?" Scourge knew he shouldn't have asked, but the words slipped out of him somehow. Clearly he was still feeling braver than usual.

"Hmm? No, I've got an energon raid to organise!" Galvatron's optics flashed hot as he grinned in feral anticipation. "Get some rest, Scourge. I'll brief you later!"

The door slid closed behind him, plunging the room back into quiet and cool darkness. Scourge tugged the insulating blankets around himself more tightly, dimmed his optics, and curled up gratefully around the lingering golden heat that was only gradually fading from his systems.

It almost felt like having Galvatron still there anyway.


	15. Dirty talk - Cyclonus/Dis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Cyclonus/ _Dis_ , for the prompt "Dirty talk"... well, actually, more filesharing than talking, but in principle. Warnings: Established polyfidelity, referenced Galvatron/Cyclonus and Galvatron/ _Dis_. Substantial angst and hurt/comfort content - this is a sad one, sorry about that. Also, this is written in present tense for once, in case that bothers anyone. Not-exactly-sexual tactile-style interfacing, rated PG-13.)

They are always so eager to leave.

Whenever the _Dis_ returns from a mission, the lesser Decepticons can't abandon ship fast enough. They barely wait for Galvatron's dismissal before they scurry pell-mell for the docking bays and scramble to get back down to Charr's blasted surface. The great ship lets them go with a whisper of scorn.

They fear it, the _Dis_ knows that much. Its dark corridors and hollow hallways make them uneasy, the cavernous, shadow-filled vaults of the flight decks have them jumping at ghosts. The _Dis_ takes a dark pleasure in their cowardice. It was made to be terrifying to all outsiders, and the Decepticons _are_ outsiders. They serve the _Dis'_ lord by a twist of fate, but they do not truly _belong_ to it or him.

The warship knows its own. And they, its _real_ crew - Decepticons in name and by courtesy only, the _Dis_ can feel the difference in every touch of their hands and every pulse of their sparks - are never in any hurry to abandon it. They come back to recharge, to refuel, even just to be close to it. At the end of a mission Galvatron always lingers on the bridge, caressing the command touchpad at his station with hungry fingertips until the _Dis_ trembles with his greed for its power and its own longing for his touch. Even the Sweeps, afraid as they are of most of the galaxy, like to curl themselves into the nooks and corners of the warship's great frame and rest there, like so many cyberbats in angular nests of conduits and girders.

And then there is Cyclonus, and the _Dis_ and Cyclonus understand each other very well indeed.

When the others are gone, even Galvatron and Scourge, Cyclonus comes back. A lesser shadow lost against the _Dis'_ vast dark bulk, he passes beneath its hull and puts himself where he belongs, in the customised drop-bay under the bridge that fits his specifications so exactly. The _Dis_ wordlessly closes the bay doors for him and lets him come the rest of the way in his own time.

Quiet footsteps echo on its deckplates, traversing familiar corridors to the bridge. The lights along the hallways do not brighten - Cyclonus has no need of them, he could navigate every micrometre of the _Dis'_ interior in pitch darkness. His fingertips brush the control pad for the bridge doors in something nearer to a caress than a command.

The heavy blast doors slide apart to let him through, and they close and lock behind him. He crosses to the co-pilot's console and takes his rightful seat in silence, staring out in seeming abstraction at the stars where they wheel slowly beyond the bridge viewport. His right hand settles to rest on the obsidian-black glass of the touchpad that serves as an access point for the _Dis'_ command interface. Silver light pulses deep beneath the crystal at his touch.

~~ _welcome, lieutenant._ ~~

"Mmm." A wordless, almost thoughtless acknowledgement, as between old friends. Cyclonus shows no surprise when the _Dis'_ shadow-steel voice brushes the inside of his processors, but the crimson glow of his optics darkens a little.

~~ _you need what?_ ~~ The _Dis_ has a good idea, but it would never go so far as to presume. A warship's place is to follow orders, not predict them.

"Nothing tonight, my friend," Cyclonus murmurs; but the way his fingertips curl and press into the crystal of the touchpad belies his words in a shimmer of blue and silver and gold. "Except perhaps not to be alone with my thoughts."

~~ _share, then?_ ~~

"You first," Cyclonus retorts, with a soft laugh. //The latest flight logs - let me see.//

~~ _uploading._ ~~ It takes a little while, even over the wide-band connection through the touchpad - these are not the summary logs that a lesser ship might keep, but the play-by-play. The real-time maps and stress-measurements and sensory memories that let anyone with the right hard- and software reconstruct not only what happened, but what it felt like to _be_ the _Dis_ over the course of its most recent mission.

Cyclonus has more than enough in common with the _Dis_ to make use of that data. He dims his optics, biting his lip, fingers scuffing fiercely against the touchpad as he tries not to let them curl away and break the connection. The _Dis_ can feel him, a linked node in the vast complex of wireframe data-light that forms the warship's command interface - connected mind-to-mind, both reviewing the same files, they are as close to _one_ as two beings can hope to become - and the ship recognises that, in Cyclonus's most deeply hidden and bitterly cherished memories, _he_ knows what _it_ knows. The scales involved may be orders of magnitude apart, but their flight controls and command interfaces were built on the same template, for the same hand. Cyclonus was forged _for Galvatron_ , and only the _Dis_ could ever understand how that feels, or how much it hurts the warrior to be deprived of that one most vital part of his function.

And so it shares. Everything it has, every sense-memory and recorded datum, it offers freely when Cyclonus asks for them, and it rides that cataclysm of sensation with him. It lets him take the white-hot memory of Galvatron's fingertips burning into the black crystal of the _Dis'_ touchpad, and is there for him as half-disabled systems of his own shudder in bittersweet pain at the echo of his beloved lord's touch. It hands over terabytes of astronav calculations and thrust and vector traces, a storm of speed and power that would seem inconceivable to any mind not designed to be slaved to Galvatron's. Cyclonus trembles in his chair, fingers scraping the touchpad; clinging to the _Dis'_ memories of having Galvatron _there_ , linked to its processors just as Cyclonus himself is now. Of being pushed to the limit, used until it hurts, driven on in ecstasy by a will of iron and a spark like a supernova; of being caressed and praised and called sweet-fierce names that lie scattered like jewels amid a torrent of infra-verbal commands and invective. In between cursing his enemies, his own troops and the laws of physics in mid-battle, Galvatron still always has something good to say of his cherished warship. _Yes! Well done, my faithful one, my glorious one, you are perfect, you are mine-!_

And Cyclonus deserves those words too and so the _Dis_ shares them, while he shudders and arches back in his seat under the sensor-ghost memory of Galvatron's voice and touch. From the outside he controls himself almost completely, only his dimmed optics and the tremors through his frame giving him away; inside the command interface, where the _Dis_ sees his spark laid bare in wireframe light, he tosses his head and clenches his grip and sobs in gratitude and agonised longing.

The ship holds on to him, feels all of it with him and for him, doing what it can. There is no jealousy. He and it were built for different roles, meant to complement each other's service, not compete for their lord's attention. The _Dis_ hurts for both Cyclonus and Galvatron, denied this piece of the bond they were built to share; anything it can do to ease either of their pain, it will.

When the log file reaches its end, the _Dis_ tries to fade it out smoothly, wanting to be merciful as best it can. Cyclonus surfaces from the datastream with a soft, pained sound all the same, his wings settling and his head bowing as cables and actuators untense. His fingers stroke the _Dis'_ touchpad and pale light blooms in the wake of the caress, echoing the shiver that runs down the warship's three-mile spine.

"Thank you."

~~ _always._ ~~

Cyclonus doesn't immediately disengage from the command interface, and the ship doesn't prompt him to - for all their kinship, Cyclonus has nearly as much authority over the _Dis_ as Galvatron does, and his decisions are received as commands. So the _Dis_ falls silent and rests, basking in his touch, and does nothing that might push him away.


	16. Outdoors - Galvatron/Hot Rod

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Galvatron/Hot Rod, for the prompt "Outdoors/exposed to the elements". This is in the same continuity as ["Like There's No Red Lights"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17100032) and its companion fics, but some two or three years later. Rodimus eventually gave up the Matrix to Ultra Magnus, mostly because his affair with Galvatron was causing such a conflict of interest that the Autobots had to let him. The Autobots and Decepticons have an extended truce that's verging on actual peace by this point. Galvatron and Hot Rod are still happily together, and nobody else is sure what's going on but they're just trying to keep everything settled down because it beats being at war. Warnings: light D/s and a bit of pain, outdoor sex, extreme weather conditions, and some minor sex-related injuries at the end (purely accidental/circumstantial, no abuse or consent issues). Tactile-style interfacing and charge play, rated M.)

Night was falling, and with it came the storm.

The changing weather came as no surprise to anyone. The last two weeks had been unrelentingly hot and the air had had a crackle in it for days. Black clouds poured in off the distant ocean, their undersides shot golden by the last of the sun. Cold, gusting squalls of wind flung harbinger sprays of rain ahead of the monstrous main bulk of the storm, and lightning marched across the horizon.

Autobot City and the Ark both went into semi-lockdown during storms. It wasn't compulsory for the Autobots to take cover but it was strongly recommended, and the majority did so. The combination of massive, unpredictable electrical discharges and vast quantities of water was an obvious hazard to any mechanical life form - and, in addition to the danger, storms had another side effect. The ambient electricity they brought with them tended to amp up everyone's charge levels. In short, Earth thunderstorms made Cybertronians... _excitable_ , and that was more than a little disruptive when it took everyone in one of the major bases the same way at the same time. Better by far to keep everyone indoors and together where they could get it out of their systems, and where there was minimal risk of anyone accidentally revealing that particular Cybertronian peculiarity to the humans.

However, the fact remained that for all the pointed encouragement that went with it, the storm curfew was voluntary, not coerced, and any Autobot who wanted to stay outside and get wet, charged up and frustrated was free to do so. Hidden around the flank of Lookout Mountain, Hot Rod crouched in the lee of a boulder and watched the storm roll in. The air tasted like greasy steel, the heat and humidity made his cooling systems whine with exertion. His plating prickled with static, sending itching little pulses of charge to his capacitor banks and making him fidget restlessly.

He stared out, focusing on the horizon. Lightning played over the thick, swollen undersides of the clouds. The middle distance was veiled with grey where torrential rain was already pouring down, backlit in shreds of sunset gold rapidly fading towards darkness. It was a majestic spectacle, and the wildness and danger of it tugged at his spark and made his restlessness weigh even more heavily on him. He wanted to transform and go racing into the heart of it, storm-chasing like humans did, to let the rain pound on his armour and take his chances with the lightning-

//Hot Rod? You'll be caught outside if you don't get back in the next five minutes.//

Ultra Magnus's voice was concerned, but not condemnatory. Even if the older mech had been declared custodian of the Matrix once again after Hot Rod had finally insisted on relinquishing it, the respect he had had for Rodimus Prime seemed to linger in how he treated Hot Rod now. The same was true of most of the Autobots, indeed. Gone, finally, were the days of everyone assuming that Hot Rod couldn't be trusted to look after himself or others.

He was grateful for that. //It's okay, I'm staying out,// he sent back. //I'll be fine.// He bundled that transmission with a _do not track_ ping to Metroplex's mainframe, requesting that his coordinates be exempted from Autobot City's standard logging protocols for a while.

Metroplex instantly pinged him a polite confirmation. Ultra Magnus took a moment longer to respond, but finally: //All right, but be careful. Come back in any time you want to.//

//I will. Have fun, guys.// He cut the connection and soft-blocked his comms on the Autobot frequencies - emergency or priority transmissions would still get through, but everything else would be held for his attention later. For another few minutes he watched the storm rolling in and the sunlight fading away, feeling the anticipatory tingling of his sensornets reacting to the building charge in the air.

And then he switched to another, heavily shielded channel, and sent a ping on it. Nothing more than a grid position; but formatted to show up on a gunformer's optical display as a tracking icon, bracketed with the status markers for _lone target, minimal threat_.

_Here I am, all alone, defenceless. Come and get me._

With that, he transformed, taking off up the road that ran past Lookout Mountain and deeper into the forests that surrounded Autobot City for miles on every side, and the storm closed in at his back.

Even without the anticipation of knowing what he'd invoked upon himself with that encrypted, hinted message, it would still have been an exhilarating drive. The rain broke over him suddenly and all at once as the edge of the cloud belt caught up to him, and within moments the dark asphalt was wet and greasy-slick beneath his tyres. The water drummed on his bodywork like a thousand teasing fingertips, and the charge in the air shimmered over his armour and seeped under its edges to make him shiver and squirm with an arousal over which he had little if any control. His engine whined and revved as he skidded along the deserted road, pushing himself, sliding through the tight bends as the road snaked higher through the dark, thick depths of the pinewoods. He had no fear of meeting oncoming traffic. The Autobots had been granted autonomous control over several hundred square miles of forested wilderness around Metroplex, so there would be no human vehicles, and his transponders would detect a fellow Autobot long before he saw them. The only person he ought to run into out here was the one he had invited to find him.

Ahead of him the road dropped away again into the wet dark depths of the woods, but Hot Rod slowed to a stop. Going back downhill didn't feel like the right direction. He paused, indecisive; and out towards the ocean lightning struck, in a vivid white-violet play of flickering light. The roll of thunder echoed from peak to peak of the mountains and Hot Rod jumped, twitching on his wheels. Charge shivered through him as the electrified air trembled around his frame, and a muffled moan escaped his vocaliser. All the warnings about Earth storms were true.

But he'd already known that. He wouldn't have been out here if he hadn't wanted to take that risk.

_Come on. Come find me, I need you..._

It usually worked, and when it didn't, he generally got an irascible _busy!_ ping back sooner rather than later. If the answer wasn't a clear _no_ by now, then it was almost certainly a _yes_. He only had to wait; but waiting had never come easily to Hot Rod, and least of all when the sky was exploding above him and his sensornets were singing with atmospheric static and the tingling pressure of the rain. He transformed in a shudder of shifting armour, unable to sit as still as his altmode demanded of him any longer, and his circuits fizzed as the water worked its way into his transform seams and he moaned again. "C'mon," he murmured. "C'mon, where are you...?"

There was no reply but the roll of thunder. Hot Rod turned off the road and started to climb through the woods. The trees were taller by far than even an Autobot, towering pines spaced wide apart, and he could easily pick his way through them and further uphill. No matter how much he wanted to be found, he knew his hunter would appreciate being led a good chase. Waiting right on the road would have been too easy.

There was a clearing a mile or so from where he had left the trail, with a single great tree standing alone in its midst. Hot Rod emerged at the edge of it and looked around him. The night had closed in completely, and the darkness fell thick every moment that the lightning relented. He picked his way across the clearing by infrared and terrain radar as much as by the glow of his own running lights, making for the central tree.

He froze just before he reached it, as his audials caught a sound overhead that was not thunder. His lasercore pulse quickened. Anticipation burning hot in his systems, he turned and looked up.

And was just in time to see something more powerful than any thunderbolt drop from the blackened, wind-torn sky in a blaze of aero thrusters and shimmering heat.

The ground shook as the Herald of Unicron's boots connected with it. Galvatron landed heavily and yet still gracefully, forty yards away from Hot Rod at the edge of the clearing. He drew himself up, towering over the ex-Prime's downsized height; his running lights and the blaze of his optics edged his massive frame in glints of crimson, haloed him in illusory fire where they caught the steam that rose from armour still scorched from the heat of a fast orbital re-entry. Powerful engines growled a challenge to the storm, their vibration resonating against Hot Rod's plating and thrilling through his aching circuitry.

And then those crimson optics found him where he stood in the shadow of the great tree, and Hot Rod saw them narrow and brighten dangerously.

"Hot Rod," Galvatron said, tilting his head with a slow, sharp-edged smile. The rain hissed as it struck his armour.

"Galvatron," Hot Rod acknowledged, with a happy little shiver. "Were you looking for me?"

"Perhaps, but it was hardly difficult to find you!" They were both moving closer to each other as they spoke, falling instinctively into each other's gravity, hands and auras reaching out. "Anyone would think you wanted to get caught!"

"Maybe I did," Hot Rod breathed. His fingers touched Galvatron's, and Galvatron's grip closed tight and pulled him in. He gasped, charge jolting up the length of his spinal strut, longing for the contact of his lover's metal against his own.

And then he got it, as Galvatron stepped in and pressed their frames together and Hot Rod whimpered out loud. This was one of the best things about being reformatted back to his old frame - it let him fully appreciate Galvatron's size and weight and raw power when they were so close to each other. "Mmh..."

Galvatron bent his head with a fierce grin, and nuzzled at the side of Hot Rod's helm. "What _else_ do you want, then?" he prompted.

Hot Rod had taken a while, when they were first together, to realise that he was free to answer that question honestly. Now, he understood that Galvatron got off on showing his own skill and prowess, and on rising to whatever challenge Hot Rod cared to set him. The Herald _liked_ his lovers greedy. If he asked what Hot Rod wanted, he meant it at face value, and long and detailed answers were entirely acceptable.

Not that Hot Rod was feeling much inclined to complexity right now. He stretched up on tiptoe to whisper in his lover's audial. "You," he breathed. "I want your hands on me, your charge inside me. I want you on top of me, holding me down..." He shuddered as his engine kicked up a gear in anticipation, charge sizzling over his plating and crackling where rain poured down electrified metal. Blue light washed like liquid over his frame, ghostly-bright in the darkness around them. "Make me scream your name when I overload. Make me beg, make me come... Galvatron, please..."

" _Mmmmm._ " Galvatron's aura flared with arousal at those bold words, aetheric fire lapping at Hot Rod's rain-slick armour. "As you will, my Chosen One...!"

Fingers dripping with charge traced up Hot Rod's backstrut, and even that simple touch had him gasping with pleasure. " _Mmmh!_ Ah, yes, please more..." The Herald's firespark touch sang on his already static-drenched armour and the flood of induced current up his dorsal power lines was excruciatingly delicious, scrambling his sensors and making him writhe needily in Galvatron's arms. He arched his back, trying to press himself closer, reaching for Galvatron's mouth with his own as his fingertips curled and dug into Galvatron's armour seams.

Galvatron laughed wickedly, delighted, and then he bent his head down again and graciously permitted Hot Rod to kiss him. Their lips brushed together, parting for each other; more charge snapped through Hot Rod's systems at the contact and then Galvatron's glossa was in his mouth, _claiming_ him with a swift, hungry thrust that sent a glorious shock of fire right through him. //Nnnh! _Please!_ //

//Shh,// Galvatron murmured, teasing. He brought his hands up to rest heavily on Hot Rod's shoulders, before trailing the kiss off into a series of little licks and nips that had Hot Rod whimpering helplessly. " _On your knees,_ Chosen One," he growled, his optics glowing hot with desire.

Between the weight of Galvatron's hands and the way that his knee servos buckled at the words, there was no possibility that Hot Rod could have refused. He folded to the ground; grass and underbrush crunched as his knees came down, and the heavy organic fragrance of wet, crushed greenery reached his sensors through the overwhelming scent of hot metal and scorched energon that was all Galvatron. Moaning out loud, he clung to Galvatron's hips and buried his face against his lover's belt, nuzzling and licking imploringly at the crimson lightpanel in its centre. This, _this_ was what he had really given up the Matrix for, in the end. Everything else, he would have endured, but he had wanted so badly to be free to kneel at his lover's feet without feeling like some kind of traitor.

"Good!" Galvatron looked down at him approvingly. His right hand curled around the back of Hot Rod's helm, caressing rain-wet metal and pulling him in closer. Hot Rod redoubled his efforts, clinging and kissing and trying to pour some of his excess charge back into Galvatron's circuitry before it got the better of his relay controls. It was a losing battle - Galvatron's whole frame was sizzling with surface charge and every lick and bite had Hot Rod getting a fresh mouthful of water and sparks - but he tried anyway, whimpering in desperate pleasure.

Until Galvatron pulled him back. He looked up with a protest on his lips, but the words died in his vocaliser as he saw the flash of sharp-edged dentae in the Herald's wicked smile. "Please?" he managed instead.

"Stay there," Galvatron told him, and then stepped around behind him and lowered himself down to kneel in turn, his own knees bracketing Hot Rod's and his broad chest pressed against Hot Rod's back. Even like this Galvatron still overshadowed him, taller and heavier and more powerful; Hot Rod leaned back, arching wantonly against him. Sparks snapped between them where their plating touched, stinging flashes of bright blue and white and gold like echoes of the lightning that played above their heads.

And Galvatron's right hand slid down Hot Rod's flank, unerringly finding the panel that covered his hardlink interface array. Hot Rod jumped and tensed at the touch, moaning out loud. " _Hhh_ \- Galvatron-!"

Galvatron leaned over the edge of Hot Rod's spoiler, lips brushing his audial. His fingertips teased the seams of Hot Rod's array cover, caressing charge into the heated, eager circuitry beneath. "Open this for me," he commanded.

Galvatron's tone, low and forceful and edged with the total expectation of being obeyed, went straight to Hot Rod's volitional centres and bypassed anything that might have made him want to argue. His armour parted under Galvatron's touch, the cover transforming aside to lay bare the delicate systems within. He tensed with a whimper at the sudden rush of sensation: cool air on his ports, rain trickling into him and conducting crawling, dripping charge over his aching hardware, the hot-golden sizzle of Galvatron's charged-up fields soaking into his systems and the rough, wonderful pressure of strong fingertips rubbing and teasing even as Galvatron growled soft approval in his audial. "Excellent... there, like that?"

"Ohhh, yes, just like that. Galvatron, please..." His frame ached with unspent charge and he couldn't earth any of it because the whole world seemed to be as charged up as he was, the very air glittering around him with power. He briefly envied the lightning bolt that struck half a mile away in a blaze of coruscating violet light, and shuddered as the thunder rolled through his frame and made the ground shake beneath them. Even the _sky_ got to overload, when was it his turn?

"Patience, Hot Rod," Galvatron warned him; playful, and maddeningly in control of himself as always. Hot Rod reminded himself that Galvatron was constructed differently, that his gunformer frame was designed to hold that much charge and use it without getting distracted, that he didn't even _have_ anything that matched the systems under Hot Rod's interface panel or the coding that went with them. He should be grateful that Galvatron was so indulgent of his neediness, and he _was_ , but _oh Primus please let him come-_

Galvatron's left hand came to rest on his chestplate, pulling him forcefully back and pressing him against his lover's heavy armour. Hot Rod gasped in pleasure at the burn of the contact and the thrill of feeling Galvatron's strength bent on him like this with nothing to protect him. When he had still had the Matrix, it had always resisted Galvatron's touches even when Rodimus himself had been begging for them; that hand on his chestplate would have called forth a snap of blue fire and almost-pain as the Matrix reacted to the black static of Unicron's energy signature where it lingered, impossible to erase, in Galvatron's systems.

Now, with the Matrix gone, that corrupting power went unchallenged; but Hot Rod trusted Galvatron not to harm him with it and it was only a tease at the edges of his spark, exotic and dangerous and sinfully delicious. He melted into it, panting - and then arched up with a yelp, distracted all over again, as Galvatron's dentae closed on the edge of his spoiler hard enough to crease metal.

" _Ah!_ Galvatron, oh, _please!_ " Armour clashed as he shuddered against his lover. "That hurt, don't stop..."

Galvatron laughed, gleeful and intent. "Who said anything about stopping?" he demanded.

But Hot Rod could tell that he was pleased. "Not me," he gasped. "You can do this to me for the rest of our lives for all of me... _oh_ please, there, that's so good..."

Galvatron's fingers under his panel had stopped teasing at his port and cable banks. Instead, they had moved to one of the two lengths of inset polymeric tape that framed the top and bottom of his interface array. Technically, they were known as tribostatic inlays - colloquially, as rubstrips. They were designed to generate charge from friction, and were connected to his array's dedicated capacitor bank. They served no purpose other than pleasure. Most Cybertronians who were equipped with them used them to build up preliminary charge before a hardlink, and treated them as mere foreplay.

But here there could be no hardlink, Unicronian warbuild systems too fundamentally incompatible with Cybertronian norms - and instead, the rubstrips truly came into their own. Hot Rod arched back in shameless bliss as Galvatron's fingers worked him relentlessly, the polymer tape hot and aching with charge that drained all too slowly into his hardlink capacitors. His perceptions tunnelled, shutting out everything but pressure and friction and heat and the straining, pulsing, bursting pleasure in that one small cluster of systems; he tensed, barely aware of his cables going tight, a shaking, keening moan escaping his vocaliser. _Yes, there, more-_

"- _Galvatron!_ "

His lover's name was torn from his lips in a shriek as he climaxed, his charge flashing over in whiplash arcs of light that started on the untouched tips of his interface cables and snapped to ground on Galvatron's fingers and wrist and the barrel of his cannon. Galvatron growled in satisfaction, pressing himself closer against Hot Rod's back and gripping him fiercely tight. "There! Well done, Hot Rod... was that good?"

"Oh, _yes_... perfect, mmm..." That had been a localised overload, only his interface capacitors flashing over, but it had been no less delicious for that. His hardlink array throbbed with relief; the rest of his frame still sang with tension, and the contrast only amplified the sensations. "Please, more..."

"So greedy, Chosen One," Galvatron murmured, as though it was a compliment. Coming from him, Hot Rod was fairly certain it _was_. "Don't worry, I'm not done with you even slightly!"

Hot Rod squirmed at that, craning his neck to look back over his shoulder. In the darkness and the strobing flashes of lightning Galvatron looked positively demonic, the steeply angled lines of his faceplate and the crimson slits of his optics standing out in the shadows under the brow of his crowned helm. His aura, crackling hot with power and charge and lust, was a blaze of red-gold washing over Hot Rod's sensornets, the vibration of his massive engines was enough to shake Hot Rod's frame where their plating pressed together, and just for a moment Hot Rod remembered - as if he ever really forgot - how supremely dangerous his lover was. As Rodimus Prime he'd been able to stand against Galvatron when he'd had to, but it had always tested him to the limit. As Hot Rod, there was no deluding himself: Galvatron could break him in two.

And yet, in defiance of all reason and cosmic order, instead he was here in Galvatron's arms being teased and pleasured and gloated over and _wanted_ , and he wouldn't have changed any of it for the universe. "Good," he breathed, tilting his head and dimming his optics, trying for a look somewhere between _innocent_ and _seductive_. "Because Primus knows I can't get enough of you and _have I mentioned how hot you look right now?_ " //I love you.//

Galvatron's optics gleamed at that, and he laughed. "Then it's fortunate for you that there's plenty of me to go around, isn't it?!" //Sentimental Autobot,// he added over the radio, his aura briefly softening with amused affection.

That was always Galvatron's answer to any impulsive romantic declarations from Hot Rod's side, and Hot Rod knew he was never going to hear _I love you too_ from the Herald in its stead. But the familiar call-and-response meant the same thing, or as close to it as Galvatron could get, and it was more than enough. Hot Rod smiled up at him and twisted around a little further and then they were kissing again, lips locking and glossae twining together as the rain poured down their frames. _Making out in the rain, how much more romantic can you get?_ \- and then Galvatron's hand slid up the edge of his spoiler, fingertips trailing a cascade of golden sparks, and Hot Rod lost his train of thought and didn't bother looking for it. " _Mmmh!_ "

He didn't bother keeping count, either, in the end. The combination of the charge-laden air, the rain in his systems and Galvatron's profligate willingness to pour as much power into him as he could take meant that there was no need. He could just sprawl in his lover's arms, forget everything but the two of them, and let himself overload as many times as his capacitors could handle.

He at least tried to touch back when Galvatron gave him the chance to, loving the heat and strength of his lover's armour under his hands, the way Galvatron dimmed his optics and bared his dentae when Hot Rod found one of his frame's well-hidden sweet spots. It got easier when Galvatron finally pushed him down on his back in the grass and stretched out over him, his weight pinning Hot Rod's lighter frame to the ground with intoxicating ease. Hot Rod arched his back with a shameless moan, tilting his head to let Galvatron kiss and bite at his exposed throat. His hand found its way to the plasma coil housing of Galvatron's cannon and he clutched there, fingers scraping against hot metal; Galvatron tensed and Hot Rod gasped at the sudden jagged-edged pulse of heat and _desire_ that snapped through his lover's fields. "Oh, there, huh?" he murmured breathlessly, daring to tease just a little.

" _Keep doing that,_ " Galvatron growled without even raising his head, his voice muffled but still razor-sharp with the force of command. Hot Rod shuddered delightedly as that tone sent fire fizzing down his backstrut, and eagerly obeyed. Primus, he should _not_ be so turned on by his erstwhile nemesis snapping orders at him; but he could feel his charge cresting yet _again_ and this time he was absolutely sure Galvatron was close enough to go off the edge with him, and he arched up and pulled his lover closer and stared up dazedly at the blackened sky through optics blurred by the rain that pooled on their lenses...

" _Hot Rod..._ "

"Ohh, Galvatron, _please-_ "

And then, directly above them, the sky split white. Hot Rod was looking straight up the length of the lightning bolt as it came down and hit the top of the great tree at the centre of the clearing. There was a colossal crack of breaking wood, a leap of flame, and he had approximately a nanosecond to remember that he and Galvatron jointly constituted the single most conductive object in a five mile radius before the bolt splintered, arced, and struck _them_.

The impact felt like every time his lover had ever shot at him rolled into one. Hot Rod let go of everything as the power surge flooded his systems, his essence stripped back to the atavistic conjunction of metal and motive force, all thought blotted out by sensation. His frame arched taut, pressing up desperately into Galvatron's weight, instinctively trying to get more contact as pain and ecstasy sang through his circuits everywhere their plating touched. Galvatron's dentae clenched down on his throat hard enough to tear through flexmetal and spill energon as the Herald's capacitors flashed over in what had to be the most powerful overload Hot Rod had ever felt from him.

It felt as though the entire payload of the lightning bolt had shorted through Galvatron's systems; and by the time it hit Hot Rod, _all_ that charge had Galvatron's energy signature on it and the greedy, hedonistic part of his spark that could never get enough of his lover's touch and power was in _heaven_. He realised belatedly that he was screaming out loud in ecstasy, Galvatron's name the only coherent word to escape his vocaliser; Galvatron snarled, muffled against his throat, and gripped him tight enough that Hot Rod felt his armour dent. The extra shock of pain only seemed to amplify the pleasure and he clung in return, crying out and shaking and barely able to control his own systems, waiting for it to end and half praying that it never would.

The last of the charge drained into the ground beneath them, leaving behind the bitter-bright tang of ozone and hot metal mingled with the dark, thick, organic scent of burned wood and soil. The rain sluiced cool and soothing over their scalded frames. Hot Rod's helm thudded back against the earth and he let out a feeble, wordless moan.

Galvatron raised his head, looking down at his lover. The Herald's bright colours were scorched to bare metal over half his frame and what remained of his paint was a thorn-thicket of Lichtenberg scars, the lightning's branching, jagged patterns engraved into his plating until his autorepairs could erase them. His mouth was bloodied with the neon glow of Hot Rod's spilled energon, his left optic was burned-out black, and yet his lips still curled in an indomitable grin. " _Hhh!_ Satisfied, my Chosen One?" he queried teasingly.

Hot Rod tried to reply and had to reboot his vocaliser, coughing static. "...ow. Wow. Definitely." He blinked a couple of times to check that he, unlike Galvatron, could still see out of both optics. "You?"

"For now!" Galvatron leaned down with a laugh to claim a kiss from him.

The taste of his own energon on his lover's mouth was hardly new to Hot Rod, but it still sent a dark thrill of the forbidden through him and he whimpered as he kissed eagerly back. His optics dimmed in bliss and he melted beneath Galvatron, his cables and actuators finally untensing themselves, his drained capacitor banks throbbing with the ache of pleasure and residual charge. "Mmmmh..."

He would have been content to just lie there and let his systems reboot with the comfort of Galvatron lying protectively on top of him like this, but after a minute or two his internal calibration checks reached a point where he physically needed to move. "Let me up?" he prompted, with a nudge at Galvatron's shoulder, and the Herald's overwhelming weight slid sideways just enough to let him wiggle free and sit up. A possessive hand reached for his midsection as Galvatron shifted position behind him.

Hot Rod was not going to argue with that. He nestled obligingly closer to his lover, looked around him, and blinked.

What remained of the towering pine tree was now a jutting pillar of broken wood, most of its former mass strewn across the clearing and the standing portion split from tip to base. The ground was scorched bare for thirty yards around them, barren and smoking despite the still-falling rain. "Whoa," Hot Rod said. "Did the earth move for you too?"

Puzzlement flickered in Galvatron's aura. "What?"

Hot Rod laughed and leaned back against him, too exhausted and happy to be up to explaining Earth cultural references right now. "Never mind."


	17. With toys - Galvatron/Rodimus Prime (one-sided)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Galvatron/Rodimus Prime, one-sided (or is it?), for the prompt "With toys". For once in this series, this finally is just straightforward cliched porn. I went a bit out of my usual comfort zone with this prompt but decided to indulge myself by framing it with one of my favourite smut tropes, which is "inappropriate dreams", and then it totally ran away with me. Since this is all Rodimus's dreams and fantasies, the usual hardware restrictions I give my Unicronians don't apply for once, so this is full plug-and-play, and not in continuity with any other chapters/fics. Warnings: erotic dreams, fantasy rough sex and D/s (possibly blurring into rape-fantasy, though not actual noncon since the "victim" is the one making all of this up and loving it), oral sex, masturbation with use of toys, and terminal embarrassment. Wireplay and tactile interfacing, **rated NC-17**.)

When the dreams started, Rodimus Prime's first thought was that the last round of battle damage must have knocked something important loose.

It wasn't like charge dreams were unheard of. Everyone woke up from recharge with their interface circuitry crackling now and again. It had happened to Rodimus himself before. But the charge dreams he'd had in the past had always been, well... what the humans referred to as _vanilla_. Just the usual semi-coherent imaginings of some barely defined fantasy lover caressing him and fingering his ports and cables, until he startled awake before anything serious could happen and found himself alone in his berth with his hardware throbbing and recollection slipping quickly away. That was normal.

What was _not_ normal was jolting awake gasping and squirming and sizzling under his armour, with his array panel spontaneously open and his engine racing, and with very vivid memories of exactly who he'd been accidentally fantasising about. He let out a strangled squeak and yanked the closest insulating blanket over his head, shaking with tension and frantically trying to separate reality from recharge. No, that _had_ been a dream. He was in his own berth in Iacon, alone _thank Primus_ , and though his capacitors were bursting with charge a quick system scan revealed that all of it was his own.

He reached up, grabbed the earth bar that ran along the head of the berth, and gasped with relief as the excess power in his systems started to drain away through the conductive rail. He must have been barely a sparkpulse away from a spontaneous overload, and that would have been... awkward. It was already awkward enough that the memories weren't obligingly fading away. His processors must have written them to long-term storage rather than simply dropping them out of cache as he came back online in the usual fashion for dreams.

He wondered if he ought, morally speaking at least, to go in and delete them manually.

It had started out so innocently, too. Just another of those dreams where waking life reran itself in recharge. He'd been in some derelict, broken hulk of what felt like an abandoned spaceship, something his processors had constructed from memories of a hundred warships and bases and the underlevels of Cybertron. Dark, uneven, all crooked walls and sloping floors and the sounds of dripping fluids in the distance and creaking metal much closer at hand... and through it, he'd been hunting-hunted-by a red-opticked shadow whose armour glinted amethyst and silver-white where it caught the little light that was to be had. So far, so _normal_. Occasional nightmares about Galvatron were something he'd been dealing with since the first time they'd ever fought each other, and having Galvatron reappear from the back of beyond after half a year of thinking the other mech was dead had only made them more frequent.

But this one had gone wildly off-script. He'd made a wrong turn, found himself in a dead end with his back to a dark-steel wall and Galvatron blocking the only way out. The Herald of Unicron had prowled towards him, unspeaking, optics glowing like embers. Rodimus had watched him, tense with anticipation, waiting for a chance to make his move and yet hypnotised to the spot by the gleam of tarnished light on Galvatron's armour, the growl of his engines, the unholy grace of his steady, stalking movements...

He hadn't moved. He hadn't moved and then Galvatron had been practically on top of him, looking deep into his optics. The Herald's lips had curled back off his dentae in a wicked grin, and then in a lightning snap of motion he'd grasped Rodimus by the throat and pushed him back into the wall and-

-kissed him. Kissed him hard and rough and wild, the sharp fang-points of his dentae tearing at Rodimus's lips, his glossa hot and demanding in Rodimus's mouth; and instead of fighting or even freezing up, Rodimus had felt his knee servos unlock and his systems flood with charge and he'd kissed _back_. Even the hand on his throat hadn't been enough to stop his treacherous frame from responding like he'd wanted this all his life. He'd felt Galvatron's engines rev with undisguised arousal and his own speed up in answer, charge licking hot between their frames, and it hadn't even slightly occurred to his dream-self that making out with his worst enemy was a _really bad idea_...

And that had been when he jolted awake, and his waking self was horrified because _where the frag had that come from?_ Rodimus didn't have any personal experience with interfacing but he knew for certain that it wasn't normal to be turned on by being pinned to a wall, half-choked, and forcibly kissed - let alone by a mech who in real life would never get that close to him unless they were trying to kill each other. What had made his processors come up with _that?_

His radio buzzed, jolting him back to reality - Blurr, all worked up as usual about something that needed the Prime's attention _quick quick now_. For once, the interruption was a blessing, and Rodimus shoved the whole mess into a data-corral in his memory banks and decided he'd come back to it later.

It was nothing anyway, right? Charge dreams about people you didn't even like were so natural that even humans had them. He didn't need to worry about it.

Right?

***

He managed to forget about the dream entirely over the course of his day, but it turned out the following recharge cycle that his fantasy Galvatron seemingly didn't appreciate being ignored. Rodimus had to give points to his imaging circuitry for realism there, at least.

If anything, _too_ much realism in certain directions. The second dream wasn't even a rerun of the first but an escalation of it, and this time his processors didn't give him chance to escape but instead skipped straight ahead to the good bits. When he managed to scramble awake this time, safe in the familiar darkness of his quarters, his mind was awash with images and sensations that lingered so vividly that once again he had to struggle to sort out dream from reality - not helped by the charge sizzling through his systems with an intensity that had him panting out loud.

 _Galvatron. Again._ He didn't even remember how they'd gotten into it that time. All he had was the sense-memory of lying sprawled on a cold steel floor with the Herald of Unicron's weight on top of him, heat radiating like a furnace through Galvatron's armour and pouring into him, the electrostatic burn of Galvatron's overclocked aura licking over his plating. And of course he knew exactly what _that_ felt like, his imagination had quite enough data to work with when it came to _being pinned underneath Galvatron_ , but that didn't explain why the fierce press of Galvatron's mouth on his had felt just as realistic, or why his dream-self's interface cover had been shamelessly open for the also-all-too-realistic violation of Galvatron's fingertips scuffing roughly, _deliciously_ over his rubstrips and pouring charge into him until he was writhing in bliss...

...or why said interface cover was still open right now in the waking world, oh _Primus_. Rodimus groaned, squirming as his systems reminded him that at the very least, the being-charged-up part of the experience was entirely real. He needed to either ground or overload _now_ , if only to give himself half a chance of being able to actually _think_ ; because much as his metaprocessor was confused and horrified, his autonomic systems were beyond focusing on anything other than the crackling sensation under his armour and the tightness in his capacitors and the way the padding blocks underneath him were rubbing against his plating every time he so much as twitched and _oh help he wanted to overload so badly this was not fair-_

The earth bars across the head of his berth, the design feature that was built in for the exact purpose of balancing any excess energy from the recharging process, were _right there_. All he had to do was reach up, grab one of them, and let his systems drain out until he could think clearly again. And then maybe he could _stop_ thinking about wicked crimson optics sparkling mere decimetres from his own and strong, rough, skilful fingers on his exposed hardware and the raw-hot resonance of warbuild engines pulsing up the length of his quivering struts and-

Rodimus Prime offlined his optics, threw his left arm over his face for good measure, and thrust his own fingers under his open interface panel.

He was so charged up that he could feel the haze of static lying thick over his port and cable arrays, like dipping into a layer of low-density plasma. Power arced across the gap before he even made contact, bridging metal to metal, and he jumped and moaned. Biting his lip, he pressed his fingertips urgently against the uppermost of the paired rubstrips framing his arrays. He just needed to overload and then he'd be _fine_.

Except that his own touch promptly brought even more memories flooding back from his dreams. His frame arched up of its own volition and in the static-soaked heat of the moment he actually _wished_ he was back there in the shadows of his imagination, with someone else's weight on top of him to hold him down and someone else's frame pressed against him to swap their charge for his-

- _Galvatron_ , he reminded himself in a desperate bid to retain some degree of sanity even now, _come on Rod you can't possibly-_

-and then he overloaded _hard_ , and it didn't matter whether he'd been trying not to think about Galvatron because in the moment, as his own charge snapped loose to the earth bars, the metal of the berth and every other conductive point in range, he absolutely _was_. He managed not to gasp his arch-enemy's name out loud, but that was about as much of a victory as he could claim.

He'd totally been _thinking_ it.

He groaned and reached to pull the blankets over himself. Carefully he folded his interface cover closed over his still-tingling gear and let his frame sag into the padding beneath him. A raw golden heat glowed in his sensornets, and he could feel his root mode engine slowly, pleasurably spinning down from the improbable pitch it had been revving at when he overloaded. Physically, he felt wonderful.

Mentally, he was seriously considering radioing Ultra Magnus and announcing that he was taking a mental health day.

***

Over the next dozen of Iacon's operational cycles, Rodimus was forced to confront the truth of the old platitude that you could get used to anything.

He'd hoped that after that one glorious, guilty overload, his processors would reset whatever glitch had been causing the dreams in the first place. As usual when he hoped for something, it didn't work out that way. The dreams didn't come back every recharge cycle, but they showed up on a more-often-than-not basis. And, like any guilty pleasure, they only seemed to escalate with the passing of time. After the first four or five, Rodimus's fantasy Galvatron was doing things to him that he'd only ever read about in red-stamped data files marked REFERENCE ONLY, NOT RECOMMENDED. He didn't even know how he had the sensory imagination to come up with some of it, but his dream-self loved it.

His waking self was extremely conflicted, not to mention becoming more and more concerned about the potential consequences. It had been a while since the Decepticons last stirred up any trouble, but sooner or later he was going to have to face Galvatron again over something and at that point he needed fantasy and reality to be absolutely divorced from each other. For the real Galvatron to get even the slightest inkling that he'd been starring in Rodimus's private X-rated theatre would be... well, "catastrophic" was probably a best-case scenario. Whatever he might be in Rodimus's imagination, in reality Galvatron was a loose cannon in every sense of the term and there was no way to even guess at what he might decide to do with that information.

Which meant that Rodimus had to make sure he never got it. With that in mind, he dug into the patch archive in Iacon's central data core, and downloaded himself some upgrades for his lockdown protocols.

The day after he did that, he was taking some personal time to go obstacle-course driving in the ruined suburbs outside the city when he was intercepted by a white Porsche. //Yo, Rod! Wanna race?//

//Hey, Jazz! Sure thing.// The distraction was a surprise, but a welcome one. //First one to the old temple in district nineteen, how's that sound?//

//You got it!// With a chuckle in his voice, Jazz stepped on the gas and shot past Rodimus's flank with a cheery beep of his horn.

//Hey! Come on, I wasn't ready!// He was laughing as he scrambled after Jazz - realistically, the ex Spec-Ops commander had all the advantages, especially in this kind of terrain, but that didn't mean Rodimus had to just let him win. //I thought you were supposed to be taking it easy!//

//I hate to break it to ya, Rod, but this _is_ easy!//

//So next time tow a trailer and then it'll be a fair match!// Still bitter about his Matrixed altmode? Him? Nah.

It was worth it, though, to hear Jazz guffawing over the radio.

***

Jazz won the race, of course, but neither of them were surprised by that. By the time Rodimus made it into the empty courtyard of the derelict temple of Primus, Jazz had already transformed and was lounging on a broken wall with his feet up like he'd been there all day. "Glad you could make it, Prime," he greeted Rodimus cheerfully.

"Luckily for you, I found a spot in my busy schedule." He settled down beside Jazz with an answering grin. "How's it going?"

"Everything's groovy with the Jazzman," the Porsche replied, with enough of a smile that Rodimus believed him. "It's nice seeing the city starting to come back. Been way too long." He gestured towards the dome of Iacon in the distance, its renewed glass gleaming bright under the light of Cybertron's surviving moons. "I'm getting kinda bored of being retired, though. How's things in the corridors of power these days?"

Rodimus snorted. "I think the closest thing we have to a corridor of power is the one between my office and Ultra Magnus's," he pointed out. "But... yeah, things are okay. I guess." The words hung in the air, unconvincing.

"Rod, I ain't putting any pressure on you here, you know that ain't my style." Jazz tilted his head. "But do you need to talk to someone right now? Maybe someone who, how can I put this, _ain't_ Ultra Magnus?"

Rodimus looked at him in surprise. "How did you-" he began, and then his shoulders slumped. "...yeah. I guess I kinda do." He gave Jazz a rueful grin. "I'd ask if you can keep a secret, but I'd be insulting you, wouldn't I?" A mech didn't live to be the emeritus head of Spec-Ops by being careless with sensitive information.

"My lips are zipped." Jazz made the appropriate gesture by way of emphasis. "Tell ol' Jazz what's on your processors. I gotcha."

"Well..." And before he could second-guess himself, Rodimus spilled the story. The persistent dreams, the embarrassment, the guilt at dreaming about someone he did _not_ want to go near in real life, the absolute certainty that there was no way he and the mech in question were any kind of compatible whatsoever and yet that wasn't stopping him from having these thoughts. Plus the fact that if this situation didn't somehow get more bearable soon, he was going to be utterly humiliated when he had to go to the repair bay and get his rubstrips renewed.

The only thing he didn't give was a name. Jazz was likely smart enough to guess that it was a Decepticon, or Rodimus wouldn't be so conflicted about it, but there was no way Rodimus was disclosing _which_ Decepticon. He suspected even Jazz's judgement-free zone only stretched so far.

"Well," Jazz said when Rodimus finally wound down and fell silent. "That's a hell of a thing." He sat forward and reached to pat his Prime sympathetically on the arm. "Can't tell ya how to stop dreaming about them, I'm afraid. Once your processors get a subroutine like that going, it has to debug in its own time, but if there's no, uh, _reciprocation_ , it'll quit in the end. So if it's any comfort, this ain't gonna go on forever."

"Huh. Thanks for that at least." Rodimus gave him a wry smile. He wasn't even going to think about the concept of _reciprocation_. There was literally no way that was going to happen and he didn't _want_ it to happen. Nope. Absolutely not-

"What I can do," and Jazz lowered his voice confidentially, "is give you a little bit of an assist, if you want one. Save some wear and tear on those rubstrips."

For a brief, confused moment Rodimus wondered if he was being propositioned. Which, well, he liked Jazz a lot, but not like _that_. "An, uh, whatnow?"

"Now, don't go telling everyone, cos I'm not really supposed to have it. The old Senate banned the things for being _immoral_ ," he made air quotes, "and I don't think Optimus ever officially took that law off the books. But have you ever heard of a scrubber?"

"Not by that name." Rodimus gave him a curious look. "What's a scrubber?"

Jazz reached into one of his pocket folds. "This is."

It was a small black box, with several input sockets on one side and a set of retractable cable tips peeking from their housing on the opposite one. Rodimus leaned in to see.

"What this is," Jazz explained, turning it to show him, "is a self-charging aid. You can plug your cables into it right here, and these ones back into your ports, and it strips your energy signature off the current. You get your own charge back, but it feels like you're swapping it with someone else." His visor flashed bright for a moment in a conspiratorial wink. "And a standard scrubber, that's all it does. But _this_ baby is programmable. You can load it with someone _else's_ energy signature, and it'll put a pretty good copy of it onto the charge it feeds back to you. You dig?"

Feeling a Prime's fields flush crimson-hot with embarrassment must have been quite an experience to judge by the way Jazz chuckled, but Rodimus was too distracted to protest. "Yeah. Yeah, I dig." He knew Galvatron's energy signature well enough to upload a rough copy of it, that was for sure. Hand-to-hand combat would give you that information about someone just as well as any other kind of physical intimacy. "Is that, uh, ethical? It seems kinda personal..."

Jazz shrugged. "Only you can answer that. But the way I see it, you're not taking anything from them that they aren't already giving out, and they don't know a thing about it. It's no different from watching your memory clips of them." Amusement rippled through his fields and Rodimus realised belatedly that he was blushing again. "And I'm guessing you're already doing that."

"Maybe." He wasn't sure if dream-memories counted, and he'd been trying to avoid digging into any of his archived memories of the real Galvatron for the sake of his sanity. "But... I guess you're right."

"So," Jazz said, and held out the scrubber. "Either way, if you want to borrow it, be my guest. Not saying it'll solve your problem, but it might make it more fun until it wears off."

Rodimus stretched out his hand. "You know what? Thanks."

"Any time, my Prime."

***

He tried the scrubber out, very tentatively, when he got back to his quarters. On the neutral, unprogrammed setting it did what Jazz had advertised - circulated his own charge back into his systems, with no identifying energy signature attached. Rodimus had tried plugging his own cables into his ports before, but while that felt good, he'd always been aware that both ends of the connection were _him_. The scrubber definitely made a difference, and he was gasping at the sensation within moments. He didn't have the experience to know how it compared to real interfacing - he was young enough that nobody was surprised he hadn't found even a prospective lover yet - but it certainly felt better than the kinds of self-charging he'd been doing until now.

He wasn't sure if he dared to experiment with the programme function, although it was simple enough. Just a basic, retro-style wireless link that let him upload a recording of someone's energy signature to the device's datacore - and a quick search in his memory banks turned up a few fairly good print-copies of Galvatron's. Examining the best one, though, he wondered if the scrubber would even cope. Galvatron had energy patterns unlike anyone else Rodimus had ever been close to. Not only were they exotic in the same way all the Unicronians' signatures were, with strange quirks of frequencies and harmonics that could only come from systems fundamentally different to anything Cybertronian-standard, but they were flame-licked and tattered and _scarred_ bright golden with all that barely-controlled plasma power that it just shouldn't have been possible for someone to have running loose in their systems. And on top of _that_ , there was something else there too, something that felt like a razor's tracery of void-black static - subtle, and almost drowned out entirely by the bright haze of EM fire from Galvatron's massive engines and that planet-breaker cannon, but it was definitely there and Rodimus didn't even know what it _was_.

He only knew it felt simultaneously terrifying and enticing when it scratched at the edges of his own fields when the two of them came close enough to touch... _don't think about that_. He'd promised himself that if he couldn't just stop this, at least all of it was staying in the realms of fantasy. Letting himself even think about being attracted to the _actual_ Galvatron was going to end in catastrophe, so he _wasn't going to do it._

He still, after a few minutes more hesitation and arguing with his conscience, uploaded that print to the scrubber. The little device sat quietly, processing, and then after a long moment pinged back a _done_ signal to him.

So much for it not being able to cope. Rodimus sat, stared at it, and then bottled out. He put the scrubber at the edge of his berth, wriggled down into the padding and pulled the insulation blankets over himself, and set his systems to recharge mode.

***

He was on his knees, and Primus forgive him, he was loving it.

This time, the surroundings were so dark and ill-defined that the only place Rodimus was reminded of was the inside of Unicron's head - which he needed to have words with his imagination about, because as a backdrop for a tryst that _really_ left something to be desired. Then again, maybe it made sense in context. The first time he'd ever been this close to Galvatron had been there, after all.

Of course, that time, Galvatron's hand had been at his throat trying to choke the life out of him. Not, as it was now, curled forcefully around the back of his helm, urging him on as he clung to Galvatron's hips and buried his face in the Herald's open interface panel. But the weight and strength of that fearsome grip still felt just as overwhelming as ever, and Rodimus was squirming every moment at the pulses of hot, sweet, shameful pleasure it was sending up his spinal struts. His own arrays, uncovered and neglected, throbbed pleadingly for the attention they had so far been denied; Rodimus whimpered his frustration, but it wasn't really a complaint. He was on his knees at Galvatron's feet, and that was no time to complain about anything.

In the waking world, he'd never been in a position to find out exactly what Galvatron had under his armour... _thankfully_ , since there was no good way that could possibly have come about. For all he knew, the Unicronians had some weird proprietary interfacing mechanic that wasn't even compatible with Cybertronian systems (Primus grant that, honestly, and deliver him from temptation). But in his dreams, his imaging circuitry filled in the details, hidden beneath an armoured panel low on Galvatron's left flank. Ultra-heavy cables, plug barrels inches thick, their steel heat-blued from hard use; a two-by six bank of them, twelve in all, enough to fill every port Rodimus himself had with a few to spare. Below that, a single-six bank of correspondingly heavy-duty ports... closed off with a thick tungsten-steel lock bar. _Access denied_ , nobody was plugging _anything_ into those unless Galvatron chose to retract that bar and let them - and wasn't _that_ perfectly in-character. Rodimus wouldn't have ever expected the Herald to take someone else's charge. The idea that he'd have a hardware block to deter anyone from even thinking about the possibility was entirely logical.

And hot. Oh, Primus, was that hot. It was such a perfect microcosm of what made Galvatron so alluring to start with. The casual certainty with which he enforced his expectations on the universe, that self-sufficient strength and will to dominance... Rodimus whimpered, muffled.

He had one of Galvatron's plugs in his mouth; the tip of his glossa was extended around it, probing at the thick black strip of tribostatic tape that ran between Galvatron's cable and port banks. He probably wasn't doing that very well, it was difficult to get much pressure or precision when his mouth was full, but Galvatron growled in satisfaction anyway and pulled him in harder and Rodimus moaned. Galvatron's charge even _tasted_ good, bright and sharp and laced with addictive darkness that prickled intoxicatingly on his glossa and slid all too easily down his throat. Sucking on someone's cables wasn't the most effective way of getting their charge out of them, but the contact of the plug barrel against the flexmetal that lined mouth and intake conduit did create at least an imperfect circuit and Rodimus felt shamefully good about doing it. His empty ports throbbed with an ache worse than hunger but he tried to relax into it, tried to enjoy the desperation he felt instead of resisting it, sucking harder on the cable in his mouth even as his fingers dug needily into Galvatron's armour seams.

And as an added reward he could feel that Galvatron was enjoying it too. The Herald's pride and pleasure pulsed hot in his fields, and he growled eagerly, wordlessly when Rodimus took that crackling cable tip deeper into his mouth. Rodimus whimpered, grateful for the encouragement. It felt so good to feel like he was doing this _right_.

He stretched his glossa a little further, flicking its tip daringly against the lock bar that ran across Galvatron's ports. It didn't seal the ports completely, only blocked their entrances from being penetrated; something suitably slender and agile, like, for instance, Rodimus's glossa, might still be able to wiggle around it at least a little. When he wasn't instantly pushed away or threatened, he ventured to lick more thoroughly - being careful to keep any trace of his charge from seeping through his glossa, he did _not_ want to act like he was testing Galvatron's boundaries on that front. But maybe just licking and coaxing at the bar and ports might be forgiven, accepted as tribute rather than challenge...

It seemed like he wasn't wrong, as he could taste sweet static under his glossa and Galvatron arched his back with a rough-edged rev of his engines. Rodimus whimpered again as that sound resonated down his struts, and he let the cable tip slide from his mouth so he could focus on Galvatron's port bank instead. His optics were half-shuttered as he nuzzled into the heat and haze of charge there, his glossa tingling with static feedback when he worked it carefully, _so_ carefully around the lock bar and into the edges of Galvatron's ports. On an impulse he pressed his mouth over the bar and nipped at it with his dentae, tugging gently. The metal didn't so much as scratch let alone move, and he tugged harder, perversely thrilled by the ease with which it withstood his efforts, testing the limits of Galvatron's indulgence-

-and finding them, as abruptly the iron grip on his helm tightened and he was pulled away like a toy the Herald had grown tired of. "That's enough, Prime," Galvatron growled, his voice harsh and warning, and then in a sudden burst of motion he shifted his grip and shoved Rodimus down, descending on him like the wrath of Unicron incarnate. Rodimus yelped in shock and pain and delicious terror, clutching helplessly at his enemy's armour. His fingers slid ineffectually on the sleek polished curves of Galvatron's frame, and he knew he ought to be trying harder to fight but in his spark he didn't want to. He might have torqued Galvatron off, but he could still feel the raw-hot lust that burned like fire in the other mech's fields. He had a terrible, wonderful feeling that he was about to be used to satisfy that lust on whatever terms Galvatron pleased, and _oh dear sweet Primus yes-_

And then he was on his back, the cold dark metal under his spoiler and hip section contrasting deliciously with the blazing heat of Galvatron's armour against his. Galvatron's forearm was braced on the top of his chest and that meant that the barrel of the massive cannon was pressed across his throat, pinning him and half choking him and making him dizzy with fear and desire. Rodimus gasped, arching up as best he could, metal screeching against metal as their frames crushed together. "Please-!"

Rough fingers under his interface cover, probing at his ports - exposed, vulnerable, _he_ had no lock bar to save him. He whimpered as his rubstrips were briefly but skilfully scuffed, charging him up, getting him ready (as if he wasn't ready _enough_ , oh Primus please just _do him now_ ) and then the fingers briefly went away - he whined at the loss - before something hot and unyielding and crackling with charge was pressed against the first of his ports and he shrieked in pain and pleasure and _relief_ as Galvatron pushed it into him.

Given the variations in size and frametype among Cybertronians, interface arrays weren't universally standardised, so instead they were adaptable. Most mechs had a significant range of microtransformation capacity built into their ports, allowing them to adjust around the solid metal barrels of a partner's plugs for a perfect fit and an unbroken circuit. Rodimus, with a Prime-class frame, had fair-sized ports to start with and plenty of expansion capacity in them - but even so, Galvatron's hardware was on the limit of what he could take and he cried out as he was forced open, his systems scrambling to adjust. It hurt but it felt _good_ \- and then the cable's tip hit the bottom of his port and the circuit between them closed, and any thought of pain was forgotten in the rush of power and heat and _pleasure_ as Galvatron's charge and desire poured into him. " _Oh!_ Nnh - Galvatron - oh, _please please don't stop-_ "

Galvatron laughed out loud at that, satisfaction blazing in his fields. "Oh, don't worry, Prime. You're going to overload for me and you're going to _love_ it." His fingers slid under Rodimus's panel again - and then another plug was being thrust into the next of Rodimus's ports and Rodimus whimpered in desperate protest, how was he supposed to take _more_ of this-?!

And it was at that thought that he dropped awake with a frame-shaking jolt, to find his interface panel open yet again and the hardware underneath it practically red hot, his capacitors throbbing with charge. A moan of despair escaped him - that had been so good, he'd been _so close!_ \- and he writhed, shamed to his spark but too much in need to think about anything other than getting relief. Before his metaprocessor could finish booting up far enough to interrupt him, he flailed at the edge of the berth and grabbed the scrubber.

Hooking it up like this felt very different from when he'd just been experimenting. He moaned out loud at the relief of plugging his own cables into its oiled and welcoming ports, feeling his capacitors start to rebalance as his systems realised that there was a potential outlet connected to them. And then he slid the first of the output plugs into one of his own ports, and _oh_.

The illusion wasn't a perfect copy of even his own fantasies, let alone - probably - the real thing. The plugs on the scrubber were a standard fit that didn't begin to stretch his ports to the limit, and there was no way a simple loop like this could offer the raw power level that Galvatron's systems would be able to put out. But it was close _enough_ that he could squirm and arch up into the sensation, his imaging circuitry eagerly filling in the dream-memory of Galvatron on top of him and holding him down and growling obscene, possessive, wicked things in his audials. He pumped out his own charge as hard as he could, groaning in relief that just as quickly merged back into desperation as all of it flooded straight back with his enemy's energy print on it, and gripped the edge of the berth with the hand that wasn't desperately groping his own filled ports. His optics flickered offline as he strained to reach his flashover point. Damn it all, why had he had to wake up when he'd been having so much guilt-free fun being ravished by a figment of his imagination?

 _You're going to overload for me and you're going to love it..._ The words echoed in his audials, making him whimper all over again. Red warnings flashed in his darkened visual field, his capacitors pulsed, electrostatic fire raced beneath his armour and _oh yes that was it he was going to come-_

"G- _nngh_!" He choked the name back from his lips at the last second. If he somehow got caught with a technically illegal interface toy that would probably be just embarrassing, but he couldn't risk even the slightest chance of anyone hearing him call _that name_ in the throes of pleasuring himself into a system crash. Even as he was plunged into a maelstrom of flaring power, the darkened room around him ablaze with arcs of blue light and the hiss and crackle of ionised air loud in his audials - even as his entire CPU array collapsed into a forced reboot cycle from the overwhelming rush of pleasure and relief - he held on to that secret, he managed not to give himself away.

_Galvatron...!_

His systems rebooted slowly. He could smell scorched oil and charge-scarred metal, and the combination of scents did nothing to help him stop thinking about his nemesis-turned-crush. Carefully, he disconnected himself from the scrubber - somewhat to his surprise, it hadn't shorted out - and put it to the side of the berth out of the way, staring at it rather as if it were an unexploded bomb. So much, he thought, for Jazz's claims of making this more fun until it wore off.

If it kept being this much fun, it wasn't going _to_ wear off.

***

It was only two days later that his worst case scenario caught up to him.

The Decepticons had hit an obscure but resource-rich planet somewhere in the Outer Rim that Rodimus hadn't even heard of, and they turned up in force. Fully fuelled - Cyclonus was using his combat superjet mode, and that was always a bad sign - full of enthusiasm, and apparently taking a pop at Cybertron's defences for no other reason than to find out what the Autobots could put up against them. It was a mixed blessing that they were targeting Iacon itself, because at least that meant Rodimus could order a crew to the heavy anti-aircraft guns that protected the city instead of being left reliant purely on infantry and the Autobots' comparatively minimal air support. However, as the Prime, it was his responsibility to go out there and join the main battle regardless, so out he had to go.

That was one thing he and Galvatron definitely had in common anyhow: neither of them had the temperament to lead from anywhere other than the front. By the time Rodimus got there his rival was already the focal point of the battlefield, joyfully blowing holes in the scenery with Cyclonus at his shoulder, shrugging off the Autobots' return fire like it was confetti. A fully-powered-up Galvatron was a frankly terrifying prospect, and Rodimus realised belatedly just how much of the Autobots' usual strategy relied on the fact that the Decepticons were generally going into battle on amber fuel lights.

He also realised, staring at that tall, bright frame and seeing Galvatron's wild grin and the joyful blaze in his optics, that he had been absolutely and utterly lying to himself about keeping his fantasy Galvatron and the real one hermetically sealed off from each other. He still felt the familiar lurching drop of dread in his systems at seeing his nemesis face to face, but this time it was accompanied by a pulse of should-have-probably-been-expected _want_ that made him blink, falter, and thank Primus for that extra lockdown patch he'd installed. This was not going to end well.

Oh well. Maybe if he went straight in there and got the scrap beaten out of him he'd finally get the glitch out of his systems in the process. "Hey! Galvatron! Over here!"

" _Prime!_ " As he'd expected, the realisation that he'd shown up on the battlefield appeared to send everything else out of Galvatron's thoughts on the spot. The two of them launched themselves at each other with equal enthusiasm but what Rodimus sincerely hoped were very different motivations, and crashed together hand-to-hand in a wild, undisciplined effort to hammer each other into recycling.

The first thing Rodimus realised was that Galvatron with all the lights on really was almost unstoppably powerful. The second was that that print of Galvatron's energy signature he'd been using for the scrubber was, while accurate as far as it went, an extremely pale shadow of the real thing.

The third was that, while his new lockdown software was doing a great job of keeping any inappropriate thoughts from being perceptible in his fields, it was _not_ going to keep him from gasping in something much more complicated than mere pain when Galvatron succeeded in tripping him face-first into the ground, torquing his arm behind his back, and kneeling on his pelvic module. The Herald's aura - no lockdowns active _at all_ as far as Rodimus could tell, _damn him_ \- was a flame-golden blaze that set Rodimus's sensornets quivering even despite the aggression scorching through it, and his weight crashing atop Rodimus's frame was like being hit by a meteor and the casually, _efficiently_ ruthless way he was making that armlock _hurt_ was-

_Merciful Cybertron, please open up and swallow me._

"Hmm?" Galvatron paused, tension suddenly flickering through his frame and fields alike. His grip tightened, twisting Rodimus's shoulder rotator just a little further past its tolerances.

Rodimus, to his own supreme horror, whimpered.

"What's gotten into _you_ , Prime?" And Galvatron's voice wasn't even raised, that was very much for his audials alone, and Rodimus remembered too late that Galvatron's eccentric processors were if nothing else unfailingly quick on the uptake. And worse, he could hear for an absolute certainty that Galvatron was grinning.

"Nothing," he retorted, muffled, and managed not to add "yet." _Where the frag were the rest of the Autobots, wasn't someone going to rescue him from this situation before it got any worse-_

"Nothing?" That was another thing, Galvatron could do _skeptical_ like no mech alive. "Are you _sure_ about that?!"

One thing at least he _was_ sure about, Rodimus thought. Assuming he got out of this with all his components attached, he was _never ever taking interfacing advice from Jazz again._


	18. Bondage - Galvatron/Rodimus Prime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Galvatron/Rodimus Prime, plus referenced Cyclonus/Scourge, for the prompt "Bondage". Not actual porn this time, just Galvatron squaring some things away in his processors because his lovers' kinks make him twitch occasionally. Warnings: psychological content including references to various people's traumas, relationship and kink musings, Rodimus Prime being a ball of angst. Rated PG-13.)

He hates chains.

Even contemplating the idea dumps a combat-level dosage of mechadrenaline into his systems, making his engines spin up until he can feel their vibration through his struts, hazing his optical display in battlefield red. His fingers clench against the whine of tension as his cannon's power banks charge, targeting reticules hunting restlessly, wrathfully across his sight. _He will not be bound again!_

He is not _afraid_ , and woe betide anyone who dares to suggest as much. The racing of his processors and the glittering black static of Unicron-spawned fire that snaps and crawls over his armour at that thought is not _fear_ \- how could it be? He is Galvatron, he fears nothing in the galaxy! No - it's a perfectly reasonable response to the thought of being _captured_ , _forced_ , of ever again being bent to another's will against his own-!

He has, however deep he buries the memory, been a slave before. He has been a captive. He will not, for anyone, be either of those things again! He will do as _he_ wills, nothing less, nothing more, and anyone who expects otherwise is welcome to as much pain as it takes to persuade them of their error. _Hah!_

Still, he sees that others have reason to feel differently. Cyclonus, hardwired to delight in being pushed to his limits, forever subject to the effort of controlling his own instincts and desires and with his coding stitched through with a hunger that could strip his control of himself altogether if he ever let it... Cyclonus feels the weight of another will against his own as a luxury, not a threat - at least so long as that will shall be Galvatron's! - and physical chains as a respite from the mental ones that he keeps on himself the rest of the time. Galvatron _understands_ that. But Cyclonus isn't weak, and he is no mech's fool; Galvatron's lieutenant knows better than to offer his wrists lightly to anyone, and that, too, Galvatron understands. Likewise Scourge, who _is_ a coward as Cyclonus isn't; who fears to be enslaved and yet doesn't trust his own judgement, so secretly welcomes the chance to hand off responsibility without having to say so out loud. So be it, then - let his lieutenants play with each other as they like, if it serves their sparks' needs. He will not censure them.

And then there is Rodimus. _His_ Chosen One-! It had concerned him greatly the first time Rodimus, in tones of whispered shame, had confessed that he, too, craved the weight of a chain.

At first instinct, the thought had outraged him. Who should dare to set shackles on Galvatron's consort?! His hand had gripped fiercely on Rodimus's shoulder as his temper flared even without a target. "Why?! You are no mech's slave, least of all mine!"

"I know," Rodimus had whispered, _trust_ flickering in his fields beneath a pain that Galvatron had not - then! - been able to make sense of. "But I might as _well_ be. It's different for you. Being Decepticon Emperor makes you everyone's master, but being Autobot Prime makes me everyone's servant." He had choked on the words as though they hurt him to speak out loud, guilt in his glance and his voice. "I know I'm not your slave, Galvatron. But... you do as you please and it usually works out. Everything I try to do for myself, every time I _want_ something for myself, it never ends well."

The Prime had lowered his gaze then, unable or unwilling to look Galvatron in the optics for a moment. "I - I was thinking maybe if you chain me to your berth and act like you won't let me leave, maybe the universe won't notice that any of it was my idea. Maybe your luck will win out instead of mine."

"But this is your choice too, isn't it?" _This_ summed up in the sweep of his hand over Rodimus's bright breast, the tangled pulse of _pain/pleasure_ between them sweeter than vanadite wine as Unicron's black fire licked at the sacred energies of the Matrix and the Matrix snapped back at his fingertips. "Are you saying you won't take responsibility for it?!"

And at that, Rodimus had looked up at him, optics wide in anguished honesty. "I do want this, Galvatron. I want _you_ , I want all of this. This _is_ my choice, I know I have to take responsibility for that. I just think the universe might slagging _listen_ for a change if you're the one enforcing it for me."

Comprehension had dawned, and _anger_. How _dare_ fate and the Autobots' absurd understanding of power conspire to bring _his_ consort to this?! That Rodimus's best chance of getting what he desired was to pretend that it was being forced upon him-! But that was not Rodimus's fault, so he had done his best to restrain his wrath until it could find a worthy target. "You will _never_ be my slave, Hot Rod. But you will always be _mine_ \- and if I need to remind the universe of that, then for you, I will!"

And Rodimus had gasped and caught at his shoulders and kissed him, desperate, _grateful_ , as Galvatron embraced him fiercely. //Besides,// his Prime had whispered, in the secrecy of their private radio connection, //I trust you. I _like_ the idea of you being able to do anything you please to me...//

It occurs to him now that without ever really thinking about it, he has developed a habit of denying his lover very little, if anything, that Rodimus asks for. Despite all logical prediction, they argue seldom and forgive swiftly when they do, and again and again Galvatron finds himself _listening_ when Rodimus puts his perspective or makes a request of him... perhaps it helps that Rodimus always seems to know when _not_ to try his patience. And he still has the final word in his own decisions - of course he does! - but indulging Rodimus seems so often to be the most intuitive course of action, not to mention the most satisfying...

In a brief flicker of dark suspicion, he wonders if that, in its own way, is a subtle chain of sorts.

His long-range comm clicks, interrupting that processor thread before it can reach any conclusion. //Galvatron? Hey. Are you busy? My, uh, my schedule just went axles-up and it turns out I've got nothing to do now for the next two standard days. Can we meet up?//

Rodimus sounds so _hopeful_. Like he truly can't think of anything better to do with his distressingly constrained free time than spend it at Galvatron's side. //Of course, my Prime!// He pings coordinates and an ETA to Rodimus - _meet you there!_ \- and rises to his feet, striding from the room.

_Doing, yet again, exactly as Rodimus asks._

He laughs the thought off. It isn't a chain, it's a _choice_ , and that makes all the difference in the universe.


	19. Roleplaying - Galvatron/Rodimus Prime/Cyclonus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Galvatron/Rodimus Prime/Cyclonus, for the prompt "roleplaying". I apologise, this one is not actually porn, because the muses decided they wanted seven thousand words of foreplay followed by a fade to black, ahem. Plenty of sensual and erotic tension though to make up for it, and I really enjoyed writing this. Warnings: themes glorifying violence, some (trivial) injuries, power play, polyfidelity dynamics. All consensual and everyone is having a good time. Rated PG-13.)

" _Roleplaying?_ "

Galvatron didn't sound angry, which was always a good start, but what he did sound was utterly perplexed. Rodimus Prime winced slightly. This idea was probably going nowhere.

He tried anyway. "It's, uh, just a thing some people do in the berth. Pretending to be characters or inventing a story to play with while you're interfacing." He'd personally picked up the idea, truth be told, from the humans, but he was pretty certain Cybertronians as a race had invented it too. "I just... thought it might be fun." He was definitely too embarrassed now to put forward any of the specific ideas he'd been toying with in the privacy of his own thoughts. _Warlord and captive_ was such a cliche anyway, ugh.

Galvatron frowned, his optics glowing carmine-bright as he curled his fingers around Rodimus's jaw and stared intently at him. "And just why, Chosen One," he murmured, his voice low and smoky-dark with danger and desire, "should I ever want you to be _anyone_ but yourself?!"

"..." On the one hand, that was effectively a _no_. On the other, the reason _why_ it was a no had him abruptly and unexpectedly choking up with emotion. Impulsively he pushed forward against Galvatron's touch and kissed his lover fiercely, gratefully. Galvatron growled and pulled him in close and kissed him back, and Rodimus decided he could totally live without that kink, who cared.

He didn't notice Cyclonus, on the other side of the room but close enough to be in audial range, looking at the two of them thoughtfully.

***

If anyone had ever told Rodimus, once, that one day he'd be out on a don't-call-it-a-date with a Decepticon warlord that mostly involved climbing over and through an endless cityscape of dusty, twilit ruins, he would almost certainly have demurred. Even leaving the "Decepticon warlord" part aside, on Earth he had never been much for history, and on Cybertron the expanses of abandoned cities just felt like one huge silent accusation. He certainly wouldn't ever class them as _fun_.

But Charr was nothing _but_ ruins. The aliens who had once lived and built there had covered what seemed like every inch of ground they could dig foundations into, and all of it ran grand and martial and austere, not to mention monumental and in places genuinely terrifying. The regular Decepticons thought the ruins were creepy and possibly haunted, and didn't like to venture outside their base and its immediate environs unless they had to - which meant that if you were on Charr and wanted some quality private time, especially with someone who feared very little but didn't do well in confined spaces, going for an archaeological promenade was an effective option. Picking his way along dusty roads and between fallen walls at Galvatron's side was actually almost relaxing. The scenery gave them something to talk about at intervals; Galvatron was surprisingly interested in the ruins, quick to comment on the tactical possibilities of one crumbling building or another or pause to admire some particularly aesthetically satisfying bit of destruction. The chance for Rodimus to stretch his servos outside of training or combat was nice. And best of all, the ancient landscape carried no obligation. If Galvatron was happy for his throneworld to spin on in its current state of majestic decay, that wasn't Rodimus's problem and he didn't have to worry about it.

And Cyclonus was with them too, quiet and watchful at Galvatron's shoulder, which rather completed the Victorian-gothic atmosphere they seemed to have accidentally set up - although it wasn't really fair to class the Unicronian 2IC as a chaperone. He was more likely to join in any improprieties that might occur than prevent them, after all... and that was the other good reason to go wandering across Charr, of course. The other Decepticons wouldn't come this far out unless they had very good reason, so this whole great empty landscape was theirs to do as they pleased without having to worry about a potential audience.

Rodimus stole a sidelong peek at his lover. Galvatron was looking around them, his head raised high and his cannon carried at a casual half-ready position that Rodimus knew he could aim and fire from in a sparkpulse if the whim took him. Starlight gleamed on the Herald of Unicron's silver and amethyst paint; Charr's thin atmosphere did little to diffuse the light that passed through it, and Galvatron's silhouette was all bright edges and void-black shadows against the endless blue-grey landscape at his back. The brightest light on him was the flash of his optics as he turned to glance at Rodimus, angled and glowing, like slitted, danger-red portals straight into the burning depths of his spark. The quick smile that he tossed like an impulsive gift when he saw Rodimus looking at him caught the starlight like a blade.

Rodimus quietly screencapped his optical display. He wanted to _keep_ that smile. His already extensive collection of memory clips and captures of his lover was never enough, not when circumstances dictated that they spend so much time apart.

He might, he sometimes worried in his more responsible moments, be a little bit addicted. But wasn't that how love was supposed to be? And besides, it was hardly like he was delusional. Galvatron's power and might, his flawless engineering and overwhelming charisma... all of that was as obvious to an unbiased onlooker as it was to a Chosen One with a hopeless crush. Rodimus was just blessed with the additional privilege of being allowed closer than most. _He_ got to see that smile, the one Galvatron saved for his chosen favourites alone. _He_ got to have Galvatron's strength and will and hunger all bent on _him_. _He_ got to _touch_ that supremely perfect frame and feel the heat beneath Galvatron's iron skin, to soak in the Herald of Unicron's fire-dark power and come away not only unscathed - mostly, _usually_ \- but _satisfied_ , pleasure centres scorched and struts aching in bliss. _He_ got to stretch out at Galvatron's side in the aftermath and be petted and praised and _kept_ like he was something precious...

...he tripped on an unexpected, uneven step as they climbed up towards a huge, broken-open building ahead of them, and stumbled with a clatter of metal. Galvatron looked at him in amusement, and Rodimus's aura flushed with heat. Maybe he should have been saving those thoughts for when he was sitting down, or at least somewhere with level floors.

He shook his head, cleared his cache files hastily and started processing ambient data properly again. They were on an upheaved, crooked grand staircase that led up to a ring-shaped building, its top open to the sky, its great gateposts gaping empty and showing Charr's black sky beyond them. The architecture had the usual stern verticals, angular edges and fluted pillars that Charr's builders seemed to have loved, and gaunt carved masks with hollow eyes and jagged teeth snarled down from the tops of the walls. "Okay, where are we?"

"Haven't a clue, we haven't been here before!" A couple of steps above him, Galvatron turned to grin at him. "Come on and let's find out!"

Rodimus hurried after him, smiling. Cyclonus was at his side, and the two of them were only a pace behind Galvatron as they emerged, flanking the warlord, through the broken gateway and looked down into the building's hollow shell.

It had clearly always been hollow, and probably always open to the sky. Tiered stone benches ringed a paved circular floor, cracked and darkened with the passing of millennia. Opposite them, a break in the circles of benches made way for a stepped dais with a half-canopy above it, supported on more of the sharply fluted pillars that held up the walls outside. Tall stone blocks topped with cuplike structures, set along the shorter sides of the dais and flanking the steps to it, might once have been cresset torches.

And on the dais, there still stood a throne.

Charr had a lot of thrones. Its native culture had clearly been both martial and deeply hierarchical, and the proof of the latter remained in the many, many ornate high seats that were to be found in nearly every building of significant size. Galvatron had picked one he liked and built his own war room in the Decepticon base around it, for that matter. This one, though, was among the grandest Rodimus, at least, had seen here. High-backed and broad, its back splitting wide at the top into a pair of what looked like curving upthrust blades, its arms ending in scrolled handrests, it looked truly worthy of an emperor.

"Well," Rodimus said. "I guess at least we know where the guy in charge sat."

"Indeed!" Galvatron's optics gleamed as he headed down the steps in front of them, onto the open expanse of floor. Rodimus and Cyclonus looked at each other, shrugged and followed.

Out in the centre of the floor, the layout of the building became clearer. Passageways hidden by the lower tiers of benches debouched into the open space, perhaps once secured by gates or doors but now simply dark throats leading to unguessed spaces beyond. The remains of what looked like mosaic tiles, all colour leached from them by the passing of time and sanded away by Charr's endless, scouring dust-laden winds, crunched beneath Rodimus's feet. While there was a narrow rim of roof around the walls, protecting the higher tiers of benches, here the sky was bare above them and its darkness added to the weight of visibility that he felt as he looked around him. The benches might be empty, but the message they sent was clear: if you had stood here, in this place's living age, you had come to be watched.

Rodimus felt the back of his spoiler prickle. He would have said once that he didn't believe in ghosts. He still didn't, really, not in the sense of haunting presences in ancient places - when he'd met a ghost in actual fact, it had been loud and colourful and as annoying in death as in life - but here, under Charr's starlit sky and with stone and dust silently surrounding him, it felt like it would be easy to start.

He shook off the thought and settled for following Galvatron, who seemed to have no sense of unease at all. The Herald simply crossed to the great dais and climbed its steps with all a latter-day emperor's self-assurance. Whoever had once sat in that chair, after all, they had hardly outranked _him_.

It was a very impressive chair, even so. Scaled for someone close enough to Galvatron's height that it made no odds - the Charr natives had apparently been organic, but by the standards of organic sentience, they had been _big_ \- it was even more ornate up-close than it had seemed from a distance, carved with the weathered remains of elaborate square-banded designs and more horned and fanged faces. It commanded the best possible view of the floor, with clear sight of all the various access tunnels, the great gate, and the spectators' terraces, and when its flanking lamps were lit it must have been very much the finest seat in the house. Before it was a shallow, broad section of the dais that was set slightly lower than the throne's own feet, at the top of the dais steps.

"I know what this was," Cyclonus murmured. "A gladiatorial arena. A warriors' display ground, for an audience - and an emperor." He gestured to the throne.

Rodimus had already been most of the way to guessing that, although he was Autobot enough to have been considering "theatre" or "sports pitch" as other possibilities. But yes, Charr's people had spent all their time building triumphal monuments, barracks and training grounds. They had been warforged as surely as the Decepticons themselves, so of course their idea of entertainment would be gladiator combats.

Gladiatorial events had never been formally outlawed on Cybertron, just quietly lost to history at the start of the Third War. When a former arena champion had risen up at the head of an army of gladiators, soldiers and disaffected warframes, setting Cybertron on an irrevocable path to civil war, the whole concept of fighting for show had become obsolete overnight. Rodimus had never seen a gladiator show in his life, or even old tapes of one - the closest he had come was Earth pro wrestling - but he tried now, just for a moment, to imagine it. The great arena lit by smoking flamelight, the benches crowded with fanged and clawed and horned spectators baying for blood. Some mighty barbarian emperor sitting in the great throne, looking down in approval or condemnation as his subjects pitted themselves against each other with muscle and will and whatever weapons they had favoured...

"Rodimus?"

Cyclonus's voice broke in on his momentary daydream and he jumped, turning to the warrior. "Huh?"

Cyclonus was smiling, sharp and wicked, and his optics were narrowed and bright. His aura was drawn taut and close against his armour, silver fields darkened with a shimmering hint of black flame, and Rodimus shivered. For all his usual stoicism Cyclonus had a dark side, a _wild_ side, and he showed it rarely but when he did, Rodimus was drawn to him like a magnet. "A suggestion," the warrior said, smoothly, almost lightly. "Spar with me? Since we have the space." He inclined his head a little towards Galvatron, and the great throne. "And for our Emperor's amusement, perhaps?"

... _oh_. A thrill tingled up Rodimus's spinal strut and through his neural nets. Hadn't he just been wondering what it must have been like, to be part of this place when-?

"Good idea, Cyclonus!" Galvatron's optics gleamed delightedly. "Well, Hot Rod, what do you say?!"

 _Galvatron had called him Hot Rod._ Rodimus's neural nets did another quick, shivering backflip. Galvatron only called him that name in comfort, or in _play_ \- and either way, it was a temporary absolution from his responsibilities as Rodimus Prime. He didn't have to consider whether the Autobot leader _should_ be playing gladiators with the Decepticons' 2IC for the entertainment of their Emperor.

He only had to decide whether _he_ wanted to. "What rules?"

He could physically feel both of his lovers' approval, in the hot flicker of Galvatron's aura and the brief silken caress of Cyclonus's. "Old Decepticon rules?" Cyclonus offered. "No guns, no altmodes, best of three. A bout ends when one challenger has the other in a position where they could deliver a deathblow without the possibility of a block or counter, whereupon the loser acknowledges themselves defeated." He arched his superoptic ridges slightly. "Failing to concede a legitimate defeat gives the victor the right to enforce it at their pleasure, so, be realistic." His tone was dry.

Rodimus grinned. "I'll keep that in mind. So no guns, no alts - just bare hands, then?"

"I was thinking of these." Cyclonus tapped one of his pocket-folds and pulled out a couple of slender cylinders of metal. He tossed one to Rodimus.

"Energy sabres?" The powered blades weren't Rodimus's first skillset when it came to weaponry, but he knew how to use one - certainly well enough for a sparring match. At least, so he hoped. He thumbed the control stud and the long, elegant blade sang to life, a flat ribbon of energon-coloured light that sizzled as Charr's fragile atmosphere scorched into ions along its edges. "Why not?"

"Excellent!" Galvatron grinned in bloodthirsty anticipation.

"What's the prize?"

Both Unicronians looked sharply at Rodimus. "For winning," he clarified. "Isn't the winner supposed to get something?"

"The winner gets the glory," Cyclonus said, with a smile. "Isn't that enough?"

"No," Galvatron said, and there was a strange note in his voice and his optics gleamed like fire. "Surely, the victor is declared the Emperor's champion?!"

Rodimus froze, and then immediately looked at Cyclonus. _Cyclonus_ was Galvatron's champion, if anyone was - always had been, always _should_ be. If he saw so much as a flicker of hurt in the warrior's fields, he was either vetoing that suggestion or throwing this bout _so hard_...

But Cyclonus was smiling, and he dipped his head to Galvatron with all his usual grace. "As you will," he murmured, "...my Emperor."

"Good!" Galvatron turned and seated himself in the great throne as casually as though it had been made for him; and in truth, it fitted him as though it had. "In that case, go on! I'm looking forward to this!"

Rodimus felt a frisson of excitement thrill under his plating as he followed Cyclonus back down to the arena floor. If Cyclonus was all right with the "champion" thing then he was, too. His imaging software was running wild again, conjuring up this place as it must have been: the crowd in the stands, the shadows and fire, the mass roar of bloodlust and exhilaration...

Cyclonus turned to him, optics bright, and saluted Rodimus with his blade. "Ready?"

Rodimus nodded and returned the salute. "Ready."

Both of them looked up at Galvatron, and Rodimus couldn't help but shiver. The warlord's powerful frame filled the great chair, silver thighs braced apart and broad shoulders set wide, and his elbow rested on the arm to support the weight of his cannon. He was tall enough that the throne's split back diverged below the level of his head, leaving the proud points of his crown silhouetted against Charr's dark sky. And his smile was lazy, arrogant, almost cruel beneath the hungry gleam of his optics.

_Everything Rodimus would expect of an emperor watching two of his favourites fight for his entertainment..._

"Ready?" Galvatron's voice rang out, echoing off the curving walls. "Begin!"

Rodimus only barely snatched his attention away from his lover in time; Cyclonus instantly closed in, sabre swinging. The glowing blades met with a sizzling impact as Rodimus just managed to get in a block. Power crackled between them, sparks flew, and across their locked blades he saw Cyclonus looking at him with a fierce edge of a smile.

Autobots, as a rule, didn't _spar_. They fought each other in training sessions, but that was viewed as a regrettable necessity forced upon them by the fact that like it or not they were on the front line of a war. It was only Decepticons who considered challenging each other to a fight to be an act of affection, friendship, or flirtation. Rodimus had accepted the Autobot perspective without question when he was first sparked, but getting close to the Unicronians had begun to sway him. As Hot Rod, he'd often enough caught himself guiltily enjoying the mechadrenaline rush and excitement of combat; being able to get the same thrill without worrying about objectives or mission parameters and without being afraid for anyone's life felt _good_.

Especially like this, in a setting that made it so easy to get caught up in the moment, with one of his lovers facing him and the other looking on with eager interest. He broke free from Cyclonus's blade and then pushed in again, knowing better than to back away from the more agile Decepticon. Cyclonus's speed was devastating and giving him any amount of space was just giving him a run-up, but Rodimus's counter-advantage was his heavy Prime-class armour and a lower centre of gravity. If he wanted to win, his best option was to fight as dirty as he knew how and turn this into a flat-out brawl.

Which also offered the subtle bonus of letting him put his hands on Cyclonus and feel the warrior's energies bleeding silver-hot against his own plating as they scuffled - if any proof were needed that this was only a playfight, Cyclonus hadn't engaged his combat lockdowns. Rodimus swept a leg, kicked Cyclonus in the back of the knee, and the warrior stumbled; Rodimus hooked his free hand through Cyclonus's sword arm, trying to transition into a grapple-

-Cyclonus, with a breathless laugh, tossed his sabre to his left hand and carved a slash across Rodimus's chestplate before he could get his own blade in the way to force the Decepticon's weapon back out. "Cheating!" Rodimus blurted out.

" _Decepticon,_ " Cyclonus reminded him, deadpan, and rammed his knee into Rodimus's pelvic strip.

While that move wasn't as calculatedly brutal on a Cybertronian as it would have been on most organics, Rodimus did still wince as his armour rattled at the impact. "Sore loser!" he fired back, halfway to laughing, loving the sizzle and shock of their auras intertwining and the ringing pound of metal on metal as the two of them switched between holds, punches, kicks, and attempts to get their swords to bear. The harder they fought the more energy Rodimus felt like he had, his combat subroutines cranking everything up to keep him in the fight, exhilaration and mechadrenaline running hot and bright in his fuel lines. And in his mind's optic he was still seeing the torches lit and the stands packed, a baying crowd roaring their approval, and suddenly it made sense to him why mechs in the Golden Age had done this. In a society that hadn't given warbuilds anything _else_ to do, this must have been the thrill of a lifetime.

And he was only an Autobot - who knew how good it must have felt to a Decepticon? Then again, he had hints of the answer in the way Cyclonus was fighting him. The warrior's aura sparked with something fiercer than pleasure at every strike Rodimus landed on him, his engines' pitch a high-revving snarl and his optics blazing. They locked up for a moment, frames tensed and straining against each other, both trying to twist the other's weapon away. Their faces were close enough that Rodimus could have leaned in and stolen a kiss.

He resisted the temptation. "Having fun?" he whispered instead, grinning.

Cyclonus didn't exactly grin back, but his dentae flashed as he bared them and it was close enough. "Oh, yes," he murmured, and then took advantage of Rodimus's distracted half-flirting to step hard into the back of the Prime's knee and send him sprawling face-first across the broken tiles with Galvatron's shout of approbation ringing in his audials. Before Rodimus could try to get back up, he felt Cyclonus's weight crash down atop his hips, and a sizzling-hot needle of power pierced his fields and came to rest in the centre of his back, right behind his lasercore. The tip of Cyclonus's sabre burned into his plating, and the warrior growled in satisfaction. "Do you yield?"

 _Be realistic,_ Cyclonus had said. Realistically? There was no way he could get out of this situation faster than Cyclonus could stab him through the spark. "...fine. Yes. I yield." He'd expected the frustration that came with the words - the thrill of arousal that also accompanied them caught him by surprise.

 _I've got Cyclonus kneeling on me and holding me down at swordpoint and telling me to surrender to him, and Galvatron's watching this,_ he told himself. _I'm allowed to be turned on by that, dammit._ It was almost a disappointment when Cyclonus, with perfect propriety, instantly removed his sabre and shifted his weight off Rodimus.

He scrambled to his feet and looked back at Cyclonus. The warrior was already poised with his weapon at the ready, his optics narrowed and intent. Rodimus almost surprised himself by not feeling any impulse to taunt or joke; but somehow he felt spellbound in the moment, and trying to make light of it would have cheapened the experience. Here, now, he was being given a brief window into a world he'd never been part of, into a perspective Autobots didn't get. His spark was pulsing fast with excitement and he felt focused, laser-sharp, joyfully aware and in control of every micrometre of his own frame as he had seldom been since his Matrix upgrade. Ready for anything and exulting in it-

"Second round!" Galvatron called out, sounding as delighted by all of this as Rodimus felt. "Begin!"

He was fairly sure he _had_ been quicker that time than the first - he met Cyclonus's sabre with his own at least a metre short of where their blades had locked the previous time. And this time he didn't waste his energies on holding the lock; he turned, sliding his blade down Cyclonus's to get it out of the way, and lunged straight in. Cyclonus twisted aside with stunning grace, pivoting on one foot and flicking his wing up to let Rodimus's sabre pass harmlessly through the air where it had been.

But the Decepticon was on the defensive, reacting rather than challenging, and Rodimus recovered from the brief overextension and pressed his advantage. Cyclonus backstepped, letting him come; they zigzagged across the arena, slashing and dodging, iron boots on shattered tiles ringing echoes from the empty walls. The noise of their steps and the snarl and rev of their engines, the sizzling hiss of the sabre blades cutting the air and the crack of synthetic lightning as they came together, all of it thundered in Rodimus's audials and mingled with the imagined roar of his fantasy audience - and over all of it Galvatron's voice rang out, calling praise and exhortations indiscriminately to both of them as the currents of their battle shifted and switched. It didn't seem that Galvatron cared which of them won as long as they both put on a good show, and Rodimus was glad of that. It would have hurt one way or the other to think that their Emperor truly had a favourite here, no matter which of them it had been.

And he suspected Cyclonus felt the same way. The warrior seemed utterly at ease in this fight, a half-smile flickering on his lips between flashes of bared dentae, his aura crackling slick-silver-hot against Rodimus's and blatantly open to be read: _pleasure, confidence, comfort, satisfaction_ all layered and laced through the stronger cutting edges of _aggression_ and _pride_ and _dedication_. Cyclonus was in his element here and _happy_ , as Rodimus seldom saw him; not questioning himself or his place, exulting in his own strength and speed and skill, satisfied with the game no matter which of them won.

Rodimus could totally relate to all of that. He didn't care who won either, not really, but it did occur to him that if Cyclonus won this bout too, that would be best-of-three before the third match was even fought. And that would short-change their audience, and surely a good gladiator would never want to do that. //You should let me win this one,// he radioed Cyclonus on their private channel.

The warrior's optics flashed and he glared at Rodimus. //And why should I do that, precisely?// he demanded, through the arcing clash of hardlight as he blocked Rodimus's quick crosscut.

//Because if you win then you've cheated Galvatron out of watching all three rounds. Sure you want that?//

The split second in which Cyclonus's optics widened as he processed that gave Rodimus the edge he'd needed. He lunged, hooked Cyclonus's weapon arm with his own free hand - the warrior's backswept stabiliser blades were a weakness in a grapple, they made it easier to lock his arm - and pressed the edge of his blade against Cyclonus's midsection hard enough to cut lightly into his armour. The hot scent of smelted metal burned the air, oil seeped and sizzled on Rodimus's blade, and Cyclonus tensed, going still in Rodimus's grip.

Their optics met. "Had enough?" Rodimus prompted, exhilaration and daring spinning hot in his spark.

"I-" Cyclonus's glance flickered downwards, as though his sensornets wouldn't already be telling him he was in trouble. "...I yield," he conceded, the words quick and formal, with a brief dip of his head but no suggestion of shame.

" _Hah!_ Well done, Hot Rod!" Galvatron's voice rang down to them.

Rodimus hadn't thought he could feel any more triumphant, but at even that brief praise from his lover, his spark _soared_. He grinned as he let go of Cyclonus's arm and drew back his sword. Cyclonus gave him just the slightest edge of a smile in return, and stepped back to ready himself again before both of them looked up at Galvatron.

The Herald was sitting forward now, almost literally on the edge of his seat, with a wolfish grin on his lips and his optics blazing. Rodimus was abruptly very glad he'd won that bout, because he _really_ thought Galvatron would have been disappointed if this match hadn't gone to the wire. Even from here he could almost taste the crackle of bloodthirsty delight in his lover's fields. "Best of three it is!" Galvatron called. "Begin!"

And this time both of them were quick enough to meet right in the middle, with a searing clash of blades. Rodimus threw his weight in, got too close, and Cyclonus's sword burned a molten line through his paint across the top of his chestplate. The pain snatched a cry from him, but his systems responded with a boost of power that made the sensation almost exhilarating. He grinned and twisted around their locked blades, shoving Cyclonus back. The Unicronian was hugely strong for his build class, heavier than a standard Seeker and capable of exerting three or four times as much physical force; but Rodimus had all the weight and armour and raw torque of a Matrix-enhanced Prime, and as long as they were in frame contact he could out-power Cyclonus by sheer brute strength.

It wasn't pretty and it certainly didn't have much style, but Rodimus kept his focus on forcing Cyclonus to stay locked up with him, not letting the Decepticon get enough clear air to use his speed and agility to his advantage. Winning the second round had fired his ambitions, and where before he'd just been content to enjoy the match however it ended, now he'd revised his objectives. He wanted to _win_.

If only to find out what was going to happen if he did. Galvatron's gaze felt like a physical pressure, a laser burn across the back of his spoiler and raking over his frame, and Rodimus didn't know whether to squirm under it or savour it. He'd never been one of those mechs who was desperate to have all optics on him - any apparent attention-seeking he did tended to be an accidental result of too much bravado - but having _Galvatron's_ optics on him always made his circuits tingle with conflicting urges to hide and show off at the same time. He didn't feel worthy of that gaze and yet he craved it, even knowing that the consequences of having it would always be unpredictable. But for better or worse, this time he'd definitely got Galvatron's attention in spades and he truly did want to know where that might lead.

Besides which, staying in contact with Cyclonus meant feeling the vibration of the Decepticon's engines shuddering through his own frame and Cyclonus's aura burning against his plating like molten silver, hot and sweet enough to hurt. In real fights, Rodimus was used to Cyclonus being scrupulous in deploying his combat lockdowns, the systems that suppressed his aura so that an opponent couldn't guess his intentions or tell whether he was in pain; now, he realised why, because what was mostly crackling through the warrior's fields was something far closer to overt arousal than anything else. Charge snapped between them in sizzling flickers of blue as they grappled each other, and Rodimus tried not to let his own systems respond too eagerly. If he let himself get turned on in the middle of this, he'd lose whatever edge he had - maybe Cyclonus was used to fighting in that state, but he wasn't. //You're enjoying this far too much,// he accused over the radio.

Cyclonus twisted lithely against him, adroitly breaking Rodimus's current grip on his arm and simultaneously pressing their frames together as he ducked down and hooked his leg between Rodimus's to pull the Prime off his footing. //So are you,// he replied, with a pointed look and the breathless edge of a smile. //You want to win this, don't you?//

//Shouldn't I?// He let himself be pulled off-balance but deliberately overreacted, becoming total deadweight in Cyclonus's grip for a moment. It was enough to throw the Unicronian off his stride in turn, and they both stumbled before finally breaking apart and regaining their footing, circling each other with optics locked over their blades. //Are you planning to stop me?//

Cyclonus smiled at that, just for a moment. Something flickered in his optics, dark and wicked, and Rodimus wondered what he was thinking - and then had to stop wondering and start moving as Cyclonus's blade hammered towards his helm, the distraction of that cryptic glance enough to win him an opening. Rodimus cursed, blocked, backpedalled; managed to knock the warrior's blade aside practically a wiresbreadth from his optics, and drove in with a riposte. Cyclonus parried, twisted aside, and let Rodimus's own momentum send him sprawling.

" _Hot Rod!_ "

Galvatron's shout was somewhere between a warning and an exhortation, and hearing his lover call his name like he _cared_ was enough to give Rodimus the extra edge of momentum he needed. He rolled; beside him, tiles cracked and pinged apart as Cyclonus's sabre came down and the sudden heat of its touch devastated the ancient ceramic. Cyclonus hissed through gritted dentae, and struck for him again; Rodimus blocked from flat on his back, flipped himself to his feet in a move that he was fairly sure any gladiator would have been proud of, and lunged. His sabre touched the amber lightpanel on Cyclonus's lower chest, just below his Decepticon badge, and Rodimus grinned in wild exhilaration as mechadrenaline flooded his systems. "Surrender, Decepticon!"

Cyclonus hesitated. His weapon twitched as though he was thinking he might still be swift enough to counter, and Rodimus felt his lasercore pulse skip a beat-

-and Cyclonus caught his gaze, and gave him a very brief, very secretive smile. "I yield," he murmured, and stepped back with his hands lowered. His sabre fell from his open grip, automatically deactivating and skittering across the tiles. The warrior folded with perfect grace and pride to one knee, hands held open, tilting his head back in submission. His gaze was turned to Galvatron, even as Rodimus, impelled by instinct, stepped in and held his sabre against the bared arch of Cyclonus's throat.

In Rodimus's mind's optic, the imaginary audience crowding the stands held their collective breath.

" _Enough!_ Let him go!"

Galvatron's voice was like a clap of thunder, and Rodimus jumped even as he quickly put up his weapon and turned to look at the Herald. Galvatron had risen to his feet, his fist raised and his cannon gleaming on his arm as he looked down at the two of them with a fierce smile. "Hot Rod! Well done!"

The imaginary audience erupted in thunderous applause. Rodimus, swept up in the moment both real and fantasy, turned, saluted Galvatron with his sabre, and bowed deeply. For a moment he completely forgot that he was still the Autobot Prime; in his own head he was Hot Rod the gladiator, victorious and flushed with triumph, and bowing before his Emperor felt like the most natural thing in the universe.

Especially when he saw Galvatron's grin widen in response, and fire snap in the warlord's optics. "Come here!" Galvatron's tone was fittingly imperious, and he gestured to the recessed floor before his throne as he resumed his seat. Rodimus exchanged a very brief look with Cyclonus, who gave him a quick smile and a barely perceptible nod of encouragement, and then carefully obeyed.

The flight of steps up to Galvatron's throne felt like an infinite ascent. Time seemed to slow to let him bask in the moment. He could feel the ten thousand pairs of imagined eyes on his back almost as keenly as he felt the concrete reality of Galvatron's crimson gaze; the Herald of Unicron was an image of graven majesty as he looked down from his throne, his lips curled in a savage, satisfied grin, his proud crown and broad shoulders silhouetted on the starlit sky. Awe and admiration flooded Rodimus's circuitry, mingling with the hot, proud rush of victory. When he reached the top of the steps, it felt effortless to fold to one knee at his Emperor's feet.

Galvatron watched his every move, the bloodthirsty heat of his gaze shifting subtly to something more sensual, more intimate. "So," he murmured. "Hot Rod, my Champion." The words were a caress, and Rodimus shivered under them in pure joy. "Are you proud of yourself, gladiator?"

He'd beaten Cyclonus in what had been pretty much a fair fight, and now Galvatron was seemingly praising him for it. He could hardly have been anything _but_ proud. "Yeah," he breathed, and then, belatedly remembering to keep his dialogue in character: "Yes, my Emperor."

"So you should be!" Galvatron's voice was fierce with delight. He leaned forward, looking down covetously, and Rodimus felt his plating prickle with charge as that hot, dominating gaze swept over him. Being this close to Galvatron was never anything short of intoxicating - the bonded plasma energy that empowered the Herald's mighty spark radiated into his fields, with a glow like fire reflecting on oil in the moment before it caught light. The tenor growl of idling warframe engines rolled over Rodimus like the tide. Galvatron's sheer physicality was overwhelming enough, and that was before considering the wicked edge to his smile or the speculative look in his optics. "That was an excellent match. Perhaps I should reward you further!"

"Mighty Galvatron?"

Rodimus jumped - he hadn't even noticed Cyclonus come up the stairs and kneel just behind his shoulder. Galvatron's attention snapped to the warrior, possessiveness flickering hot in his aura as he acknowledged Cyclonus as _his_. "What, Cyclonus?!"

"Forgive me, my liege, but... perhaps you might reward Hot Rod as you would have rewarded me?"

" _Hmmm._ " Galvatron's optics glinted, and he licked his lips. "Excellent idea, Cyclonus! What do you say, Hot Rod?"

Rodimus felt his lasercore pulse speed up. He knew all too well what sort of _rewards_ Galvatron tended to bestow on Cyclonus when the warrior had earned his favour over and above the usual order of things. His already charged-up systems tingled with anticipation, distracting him enough that it took him a moment to realise that Galvatron was actually waiting for a real answer from him. "I, uh... yes please?"

So much for roleplaying - seemingly he was the only one who _couldn't_ stay in character. But Galvatron bared his dentae in a delighted grin and didn't appear to care. "Good," the Herald breathed. "Come to me, then!" He held out his hand - his right hand, weighted with the great cannon - and Rodimus reached out and took it.

Static snapped between their palms. The denser layers of Galvatron's aura that lay close to his plating were sparking hot with desire and power, and Rodimus thrilled as the contact burned into his fields. He crawled closer on his knees, looking up eagerly as Galvatron leaned down to him; but as their gazes locked, Rodimus couldn't help murmuring, "I thought you weren't into the roleplaying thing?"

And Galvatron grinned at that, and for a moment it was just the two of them and this _was_ just a game even though, somehow, it also very much wasn't. "I'm starting to see the attraction!" the Herald replied, and slipped his left hand behind Rodimus's helm to tug him up into a scorching kiss.

Rodimus arched his back, dimmed his optics - and hastily deleted his fantasy crowd of thousands from his imaging circuits. They totally didn't get to watch this part.


	20. Trust - Galvatron/Cyclonus (PLEASE READ WARNINGS)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galvatron/Cyclonus, set right after the canon events of the episodes "Starscream's Ghost" and "Ghost in the Machine". The original prompt was "trust kink", but this is really way deeper than just kink and is about trust when the stakes are very high indeed. **Warnings, please read:** this fic deals with the aftermath of possession, betrayal, and what feels to those involved like infidelity and emotional rape. Both characters are traumatised and trying to cope, which means there's yelling, deliberate cruelty, flashbacks, paranoia, mental distress and serious trust issues. Also, consensual but graphic torture in a sexual context - not just S&M, _this is deliberate torture_ for reasons that go beyond kink. I promise both the characters and their relationship do come through okay and everything that happens onscreen is consensual, but still, please do skip this one if you think it might not be for you. Tactile and kinda-sorta spark interfacing, **rated NC-17** for emotional and physical violence, significant injuries, risk to life, and discussion of past consent/autonomy violations.

"He took you from me in front of my optics! He took Scourge! He made me _shoot both of you!_ How am I supposed to believe _anyone_ is themselves after _this?!_ "

Galvatron was ranting and deep down he knew it, but the inside of his mind felt like a solar storm and an interminable scream at the same time and all that rage and horror had to find an outlet somewhere. At least Cyclonus - if it _was_ Cyclonus, _how was he ever going to be certain again?!_ \- was listening to him, head dipped a little in respectful attention - _or it could be another trick, shut up, that thought wasn't helping!_ "How do I know you _are_ Cyclonus? You don't even know what happened... at least you _say_ you don't! _Rrrrrrgh!_ "

He turned ferociously on his heel, pacing, snarling, the plasma coils inside his cannon running so hot they were sending white-spark aches through his sensornets. He wanted Starscream in front of him bound and tortured and demonstrably _right there_ , nothing else was going to satisfy the thunderous vortex of paranoia and loathing and fury inside him, but the last anyone had seen of Starscream he'd been blown into space. He could be anywhere... any _one!_

Curse him, the Seeker had poisoned _everything_ , and Galvatron hadn't even noticed. He shuddered now with revulsion at the memories. He'd been played for a fool, led into a trap - _Starscream had been there while he was piloting Cyclonus!_ And almost as bad, Cyclonus had tortured Octane for him and it _hadn't been Cyclonus at all_. All of that was nothing less than a violation. His and Cyclonus's shared secrets were _not_ for the likes of Starscream to even know, let alone exploit! Starscream had _used_ Cyclonus's body and knowledge and skills, his voice, his aura, all of it perfectly stolen; he'd exploited Galvatron's tastes and pleasures and used _his lieutenant_ as a pawn...

...and Galvatron had been getting off on it and the thought that he'd allowed _Starscream_ to have that effect on him for even a sparkpulse made him want to rip off his own armour and decontaminate his lasercore with a welding torch. He couldn't bear to confront that thought and so instead he swung on Cyclonus, still growling. "Well?!"

He could feel hurt flicker through Cyclonus's fields, but there was adoration there, too. _As there should be, if it was really him-!_ And Cyclonus simply stepped a pace nearer and knelt to one knee, bowing deeply and then tilting his head up to look Galvatron in the optics. "Would Starscream do this, my lord?" he asked. "Would he kneel to you in anything other than fear?"

Galvatron's neural nets sparked with the urge to respond to that blatant offer of submission. He wanted to fall upon his lieutenant - _his!_ \- and kiss the taste of treason out of both their mouths, wanted to grasp Cyclonus to himself and feel his precious favourite shudder and gasp and _surrender_ to him... and he didn't _dare_ , because he _couldn't_ be wrong again. "He might if it got him something he wanted!" he snapped back viciously. If he was hurting the real Cyclonus, so be it; that was better by far than embracing a false one. _His_ Cyclonus would forgive the sharp edge of Galvatron's glossa a thousand times over, certainly in preference to any more accidental infidelity. "Such as a chance to shoot me in the back!"

The flicker of emotions that played across Cyclonus's face and through his fields was exactly what Galvatron would have expected: _hurt, loyalty, acknowledgement, trust_. Did Starscream even know what loyalty _ought_ to feel like, much less trust? Could he feign those?

 _He could if he was in the back of Cyclonus's head, letting Cyclonus do all the work for him for now but still THERE._ "Not enough!" he snarled. "I need to be _sure!_ "

Cyclonus lowered his head a little, respectful still. If Starscream _was_ in there he was doing a better job than ever of copying Cyclonus's mannerisms... Galvatron tried to force that thought away, because if he let it sit in his processors for too long he _would_ shoot Cyclonus again, and that wasn't what he wanted. But what could he _do-?_

"May I offer a suggestion, my lord?"

Cyclonus was visibly tense with caution as he spoke, but there was utter trust and faith burning silver in his taut-threaded fields. Galvatron growled. "Out with it!"

"Why not test me, if you doubt that I am, well, _me_?"

"Test you _how?_ If he's inside your head he knows everything you know anyway!"

And Cyclonus smiled, just a little, grim but certain. "He could _know_ what I know, but that does not mean he could imitate me in everything," he replied. "Starscream is a coward at spark, mighty Galvatron. Even wearing my frame, he could never endure what I know you could do to me, much less welcome it." He held out his hands, palms upwards as though offering his wrists for chains, and something shimmered in his aura that was surely too dark to be desire. "Test me in _your_ fashion, my lord. Break me however you will. _I_ will take it."

Galvatron stared at him, and something dark and terrible deep in the roots of his spark snarled a _yes_ almost before his processors had finished assimilating the suggestion. Cyclonus was right: Starscream didn't have the bearings for the kind of pain the warrior was talking about. At a mental arm's length, he could glance into the databanks where he kept Megatron's memory files and see as much, although it turned his circuits to know what his predecessor and the treacherous Air Commander had been doing together. But Starscream was a schemer and a sensualist, that much was clear. He had liked to push Megatron, and Megatron had liked to be pushed. Their couplings had been greedy, messy, disgusting scuffles for dominance - and Starscream might permit pain to be inflicted on him, but only if he could use it for leverage. He and Cyclonus were truly day and night, and what Cyclonus was suggesting would be anathema to the treacherous Seeker.

So be it, then! If he tortured Cyclonus, then if Starscream _was_ there, he would be driven out, or at least caused to suffer beyond measure. And if he wasn't... still, Cyclonus got what he seemed to desire, and Galvatron got to unleash some of the violence that it was choking him to hold down. "Very well!" he snapped, and pivoting on his heel he lashed out and kicked Cyclonus viciously in the chest.

The clash of steel rang in the air. Cyclonus crashed backwards, sprawling across the floor, sparks spitting from his cracked chestplate. His optics guttered dark for a moment as he looked up. "My lord," he gasped.

There was no question or protest in the words, and Galvatron loved him for that even as the darkness in his spark rose like an all-consuming tide at the sight. _His_ favourite, lying before him, broken open by his will and his hand-! With a wordless snarl he followed up, lunging to throw himself down atop Cyclonus. The yielding arch of his lieutenant's throat seemed made for his grasp, the crackle of sparks against his plating sent a pulse of vicious lust through him, and his vision hazed with crimson fury. Just for a moment as his fingers tightened, crushing hydraulic lines and feeling struts press through flexmetal, it _was_ Starscream beneath him and the blood-red urge to destroy nearly mastered him altogether. _Traitor, thief, deceiver... you will die as many times as it takes for me to kill you for good-!_

"Galvatron..."

Not Starscream's voice, even choked into a whisper by his grip. Not Starscream's touch, the hands that clutched at his hip and shoulder instead of pushing him away; _Cyclonus_ , _his_ Cyclonus, yielding to him and wanting _more_ , his aura bleeding silver into the seams of Galvatron's plating like a sacrificial offering-! " _Cyclonus._ " He looked deep into his lieutenant's darkened optics, bearing down with his full weight to crush the other mech beneath him. _Nobody will take you from me ever again!_

//Yes... mighty Galvatron...// Cyclonus's vocaliser must be failing him, as that reply was over their private radio channel, but there was no hesitation in the words. His aura flared with pain, but there wasn't a trace of fear or denial underlying it. No less than Galvatron would have expected of him-!

With an effort of will, he loosened his grip. Cyclonus choked as the pressure on his vocaliser eased, but the next sound to escape him was a soft moan as he tilted his head back further to press his crushed throat _into_ the curl of Galvatron's fingers. There was a rippling shiver of metal on metal as he trembled, his wingtips shudder-chiming against the floor. His optics were dimmed almost to black and his lips were parted, and Galvatron felt his spark thud against the inside of his chestplate at the sight of him.

"Cyclonus," he growled again, savouring the silver-shimmering pulse of _bliss_ that washed through the pain in Cyclonus's aura in reply. Truly his favourite and Megatron's were galaxies apart, practically inverses of each other. Starscream was greedy, egotistical, selfish, defensive - Cyclonus's desires began and ended with Galvatron's will. "You'll let me do anything to you, won't you?!" he challenged as that thought flickered through his processors. "You _like_ this. Don't you?!"

Cyclonus gasped. His armour scraped against Galvatron's as he tried to arch up under his lord's weight. Galvatron thrust a knee between his thighs, pushing him back down with a powerful thigh forced against his pelvic strip, and Cyclonus melted obediently beneath him with a desperate little moan of devotion.

 _So sweet, so faithful - surely Starscream couldn't abide that, let alone feign it!_ "Yes, mighty Galvatron," Cyclonus managed, his voice cracked and rough with static. " _Yes..._ I belong to you. I ask only to be used as you will." A shiver ran through him, his fields prickling static against Galvatron's plating.

Not quite shame, that crackle of emotion, but the keen awareness of his own vulnerability - and _joy_ in that vulnerability, a spark-deep longing to offer himself up whole and be _accepted_ no matter to what end or purpose. Galvatron's aura blazed with an answering surge of pride and possessive desire, and Cyclonus twitched ecstatically as all of Galvatron's lust and claiming hunger flooded his senses. "You're _mine_ , Cyclonus," Galvatron snarled, and with his left hand still on his lieutenant's throat he bent and kissed Cyclonus on the lips. Just as he'd wanted to before, licking fiercely into Cyclonus's mouth, claiming him _back_ from the traitor who had tried to turn them against each other-! And Cyclonus _whimpered_ , a beautiful shameful noise that Galvatron knew his proud lieutenant would _never_ make for anyone but him, and he felt a rush of savage triumph. _Yes - mine, always mine!_

He reached up and traced the flexed, straining edge of Cyclonus's wing, using the power in his fields to draw a surge of induced current through Cyclonus's sensornets in the wake of his hand, exulting in the dominance that the touch expressed - that he could leave his mark on Cyclonus's very circuitry, stamp his own energy patterns beneath Cyclonus's armour without receiving so much as a whisper of defiance in reply! And Cyclonus gasped into his mouth, shuddering beneath him in delirious bliss even as sparks snapped against Galvatron's glacis from his shattered armour. //Oh, my lord... please!//

_Seekers like having their wings petted, too..._

He was becoming _very_ angry with whatever treasonous corner of his processors kept spawning thoughts like that one! His aura crackled with plasma static and half-directed fury as he pressed his thumb to the flat of Cyclonus's wing, locked his fingers around its tip, and _twisted_.

Armour forged to withstand the firepower of armies and the claws of the void crumpled, sheared, tore in his grip. Struts collapsed like solder wire - and Cyclonus bucked and cried out but _not in protest_ , his fields a silver blaze of _pain_ and _pleasure_ and _love_. Galvatron snarled and kissed him again, roughly enough to split metal when their mouths clashed together, shuddering with pleasure and satisfaction as Cyclonus instantly, desperately kissed him back through the mingled taste of their spilled oil and energon.

 _Do Seekers like having their wings BROKEN? I thought not!_ "Cyclonus..." He growled his favourite's name through lips that dripped with oil, muffled where their mouths still grazed together. "You're _mine_... I'll kill you myself before I let him take you from me!"

Cyclonus shivered at that, his fingers clutching desperately at Galvatron's flank. His optics were wide open, darkened with pain and desire. "Please..."

"Hmm? Please _what_ , Cyclonus?!"

Cyclonus choked and swallowed, clearing his vocaliser of his own fluids to speak again. "Please, my lord... if it comes to that, do so. I would rather die by your hand than ever again be used against you." With a seeming effort he reached up to brush his fingertips lightly, worshipfully down the ridge of Galvatron's cheek, threads of his charge shimmering in their wake like an offering. " _Galvatron..._ "

Galvatron growled in approval, deigning to tilt his head into Cyclonus's touch and feeling the thrill of pure happiness that ran through his lieutenant's fields simply at _having pleased him_. Broken and maimed under his lord's hands and still his first and only thought was for Galvatron's pleasure... no, Cyclonus had been right. There _were_ tests no traitor could hope to pass. He bent his head to claim Cyclonus's mouth again, exulting in the way Cyclonus melted into the kiss, the taste of oil and energon and desire on _his_ warrior's lips...!

And yet, even convinced, he wanted more. He wouldn't be satisfied until he was _certain_ that every last trace of Starscream's contamination was stripped from his favourite's spark and systems, until every atom of Cyclonus's being was _his_ again... and he knew just how to make sure of that. //One more test, Cyclonus! Will you do as I say?//

// _Yes,_ mighty Galvatron,// Cyclonus murmured, dazed and fervent, lost to pain and joy. //Command me, my lord... anything!//

Galvatron shifted his weight, breaking the kiss and looking down at his wounded favourite. That kick to Cyclonus's chestplate had cracked his outer armour and torn into the layers of shielding circuitry woven through the heavy plate, but not yet exposed his lasercore and primary systems. Galvatron laid his hand over the wound, letting the golden static of his own aura and the crackling black corruption of Unicron's power that ran in his systems drip from his fingers and into Cyclonus's circuits. Cyclonus gasped and shuddered rapturously at the touch.

 _Good!_ Good that Cyclonus should take such pleasure in that. "I want your spark," Galvatron told him, baring his dentae in something too fierce for a smile. "Show it to me!"

Cyclonus's optics widened, flashing startled-bright, but without hesitation he folded the sides of his broken breastplate open. Metal ground on metal as the buckled armour jammed on its transform rails, but if it hurt, Cyclonus made no protest. "My lord," he breathed, as the pale glow of his exposed lasercore filled the dark room around them.

"Good," Galvatron praised him, and Cyclonus's optics dimmed again in trust and bliss. His head fell back to rest against the floor beneath him, and Galvatron looked down at him torn for a moment between the urge to possess and the desire to protect. Cyclonus looked so vulnerable; _willingly_ so, his life in his lord's hands and not even looking to see what Galvatron might do to him next.

 _Beautiful, faithful, perfect, mine-!_ "My beautiful Cyclonus," he murmured, mostly just to feel the melting, yielding thrill of joy through Cyclonus's aura at those words. " _Mine,_ and let no one dare forget it!"

"Yours, mighty Galvatron," Cyclonus echoed softly. The last traces of tension ebbed from his frame. Broken, trusting, laid bare to his deepest essence, he waited faithfully on Galvatron's command.

And oh, how fiercely Galvatron loved him for that! So be it; such loyalty should receive its due reward. He reached into Cyclonus's open chestplate with static-slick fingertips, stroking the heavy shielding that covered Cyclonus's lasercore. Behind its armoured window, anchored within its crystal housing, his lieutenant's spark pulsed with a steady, silvery light that brightened perceptibly at his touch. Cyclonus let out a soft breath of a moan, his back subtly arching into the caress.

Cybertronians did not toy with each other's sparks. Galvatron knew that, the thought coming to him as some thoughts did, a memory that wasn't his - he tried not to remember, then, to whom it must have belonged! But the data was there: that Primus's creations considered the spark to be sacrosanct even between lovers. To interfere with it was violation, obscenity verging on blasphemy.

So what of it? He was Galvatron, and the laws of Primus meant nothing to him or his! Reaching deep into his own spark and the greater darkness that was still his to call upon with or without his creator's consent, summoning the Devourer's corrosive power through his circuitry until his fingertips were wreathed in jet-black static, he pressed his hand to the crystal glass of Cyclonus's lasercore shielding and channelled that darkness into the warrior's vital systems.

And Cyclonus arched underneath him with a desperate wild cry, tensors and hydraulics straining taut, optics flaring and engines screaming - but the backwash of emotion that flooded his fields was _pleasure_ , not the searing agony that a Cybertronian would have felt. The touch of Unicron's voidfire straight to a Primus-given spark would burn as surely as the light of the Matrix drove back the Unicronians: if there had been any trace of Starscream still hiding in Cyclonus's systems, Galvatron's touch dripping with Unicron's gift and curse would have immolated it.

In truth, no spark was supposed to be exposed to such an influx of power, whether aligned or inverted. Cybertronian received wisdom understood that while capacitor overloads were comparatively harmless, spark overloads _killed_. But Galvatron knew his lieutenant, knew that Unicron had forged Cyclonus stronger than that. _You were made to withstand the worst I could do to you - even this!_

And so he poured everything he could into Cyclonus's willing frame and spark as Cyclonus writhed and cried out and clutched at him in pain and adoration and delight, watching greedily as that pulsing silver glow brightened to a blaze that obliterated colour and shadow alike. Black fire spread across their frames, webbed like cracks over their plating; dark and terrible and sharp as a razor and inalienably _theirs_ , something that no changeling spark could withstand, immortal or otherwise! Cyclonus's hands tightened on Galvatron's hip and back until the Herald felt his armour buckle, but he paid that no heed. What did it matter if they hurt each other? Both of them could take it! "Yes, Cyclonus, yes... _there_ , for me...!"

" _Nnnnh-!_ " Beyond speech, Cyclonus choked on a scream as he arched up under Galvatron's hands. His optics blazed near white, and smoke and the fumes of scorched metal rose from his core circuitry, but his aura was a silver-black blaze of desire and devotion. Shuddering as his engines began to desynchronise under the strain, mismatched vibrations shaking him to his core, nonetheless he clung as though Galvatron was the only stable point in his universe, the gravity that bound him, the star that ruled his orbit... and _that was as it should be!_ Galvatron didn't even try to contain the pride and triumph he felt. Let Cyclonus have that; let him have the only reward he seemed to value anyway, of knowing that his lord was pleased with him. He bent his head, grazing a rough kiss across his lieutenant's mouth before moving to whisper in his audial.

"Cyclonus?! _Break for me._ "

Even Galvatron wasn't sure whether he meant the words as command or permission, but it didn't matter, the effect was the same: Cyclonus let out a broken gasp and _obeyed_ him. The blaze of the warrior's spark flashed over in a blinding backwash of silver, a soundless detonation of light haloed in black flame. Galvatron snarled as all that released energy struck him like a tidal wave, submerging even his iron will beneath a searing rush of power and pain and pleasure and _hunger_ , and for an eternal fraction of a moment there was no boundary left between himself and Cyclonus and the force that had created both of them. _As it had once been, as the Void had forged them,_ Cyclonus's whole frame and spark no more than an extension of Galvatron's own self and will, and _joyfully_ so-!

And yet there was no sustaining that; not _now_ , not since the fall of their creator had broken and remade them as the free sparks they had irrevocably become. Galvatron blinked, panting as awareness returned to him. Looking down, he was almost surprised for a moment to see Cyclonus there as a separate entity lying in his arms; but he gripped his lieutenant fiercely to him, his instincts as ever quick to take control. "Cyclonus!"

Blacked-out optics flickered dimly red, then relit. Cyclonus gasped, limp in Galvatron's embrace, his fields a tangled haze of static as overstrained systems struggled to reboot. "My lord," he breathed nonetheless, managing to quirk his lips into a crooked smile. Almost as though he thought Galvatron might need _reassuring_.

Which was nonsense, of course, but Galvatron didn't comment on that. This was a moment for indulgence, not censure. "My lieutenant," he murmured. He stroked the crest of Cyclonus's helm.

Cyclonus tilted his head into the touch, weak but grateful. "Thank you, mighty Galvatron."

"You're thanking me? I nearly killed you!" Even from the outside, he could feel the damage that their impromptu exorcism had done to Cyclonus. There was a good chance he was going to have to carry the warrior to the _Dis'_ repair bay... not that he wouldn't! After enduring that for him, Cyclonus had earned whatever care and repairs he needed.

"As would have been your prerogative, my lord, if you felt I deserved it," Cyclonus replied. His tone was dazed, but serenely content despite his words. "But thank you, because..." He paused, cleared his vocaliser with a harsh scratch of static - the damage Galvatron's hand on his throat had done must still be troubling him. "Without that... I couldn't have been sure you weren't right."

Galvatron blinked and stared at him. "What - _you_ didn't know either?!"

"How could I have been certain, my lord? Our enemy already proved he could control me without my knowing it." He looked away from Galvatron's optics for a moment in deep shame. "But I trust you, mighty Galvatron. Always."

"So you should!" Galvatron's voice was sharp, but there was no anger in his touch as he caressed his favourite. "And _that_ ," he added, leaning down to bring their mouths together, "is why I will _never_ let anyone take you from me again!"

Cyclonus's lips parted eagerly for him, and no more words were needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Afterword: I've always kind of hated the popularity of "spark interfacing" as a TF porn trope, especially with the lifetime-bonding and mech-pregnancy baggage that usually goes with it. "Let's just mash our souls together, what could possibly go wrong?" seems all kinds of problematic to me. So here's an alternative take.)


	21. Not in bed - Galvatron/Rodimus Prime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galvatron/Rodimus Prime, for the prompt "In or on a place not a bed". I swear this was just going to be a simple rooftop makeout but then context happened; so instead it's yet another alternate take on how these two ended up together, because apparently my muses can't get enough first kisses. Romantic/sexual tension, kissing and touching, emotionally compromised Rodimus, angst and possibly treason, all consensual. Rated PG-13.

There were explosions in the skies over Iacon, and Rodimus Prime looked up and watched the bursts of colour and thanked every friendly power he could think of that they were only fireworks.

It had been a long, wild, and chaotic handful of days. Some of the younger and more excitable Autobots - as if, technically, Rodimus himself shouldn't have been counted in that number - had already started calling it the Siege of Cybertron, complete with audible capital letters. Rodimus was privately thinking of it as Not Those Five Faced Tailpipes Again.

Which was probably still less unrepeatable than whatever the mech currently sitting at his side would choose to call it. Rodimus didn't quite dare ask. He was still catching up with the fact that, with Iacon besieged from orbit by the biggest Quintesson fleet he'd never wanted to know was out there and the Autobots' reserves of fuel and everything else on the brink of running dry, they'd been rescued at the eleventh hour and fifty-ninth minute by, of all people, Galvatron.

Well, to be exact, by the entire Decepticon army plus the _Dis_ , Galvatron's behemoth battlecruiser, whose firepower had definitely been a deciding factor. But the Decepticons were hardly a democracy. The decision, and the order to engage the Quintessons instead of joining forces with them and fighting over the scraps of Cybertron afterwards, had to have been Galvatron's.

 _Why_ was the second thing Rodimus didn't dare ask. The third, currently dominating his processors more than either of the others, was why, rather than chasing fleeing Quintessons or indeed making a quick bid to conquer Cybertron while the Autobots were catching their breath, Galvatron was currently sitting perfectly casually on the rooftop of the near-derelict Iacon Hall of Records with _him_.

Rodimus had only come up here to get an overview of the fallout from the siege and catch a moment to himself away from everyone who would be expecting him to act all Prime-like now. Galvatron, completely without warning, had simply dropped out of the sky and greeted him with "Ah, Prime, there you are! May I join you?"

He hadn't known what to say other than _sure_. He knew the rest of the Decepticons were currently scattered between the _Dis_ and Cybertron, thus far maintaining what seemed to be an unspoken all-units truce, and he had hastily pinged instructions to Ultra Magnus, whom he suspected was liaising with Cyclonus, to keep order and let him know if anything went wrong. He had a good excuse to delegate, after all. It really wouldn't be politic to blow off the closest thing to a civil overture he'd received from Galvatron since-

-not thinking about that. Rodimus hastily killfiled that particular batch of complicated, terrifying, wistful memories. Instead, he ventured to turn his head a little and study the mech beside him as unobtrusively as he could.

It felt strange to be able to look at Galvatron properly, rather than being primarily focused on where the business end of the Decepticon warlord's signature weapon was pointing - which was to say, usually at Rodimus. The cannon was still there, of course, but for now it was aimed idly at nothing where Galvatron's forearm rested on his drawn-up knee. His other hand was braced behind him, propping his weight as he leaned back to look up at the multicoloured detonations still decorating the skies over Iacon. For once his expression was relaxed, almost neutral save for a slight, contemplative smile. Rodimus didn't think he'd ever seen Galvatron look so, for want of a better descriptor, _laid back_.

Maybe blowing up six Quintesson battlecruisers in one afternoon had been enough to sate even his warlust for a while. Still, despite all the aspersions the Autobot rank and file regularly cast in Galvatron's direction, there was no denying that the Decepticons' siege-lifting assault had been superbly strategised and masterfully executed; and Galvatron had been in the forefront of it every step of the way, doing as much damage to the enemy as any half-dozen other Decepticons combined and drawing on seemingly inexhaustible reserves of firepower and rage. It had been almost exhilarating to watch him... when Rodimus for once _could_ watch without having to try and stop him. He'd never expected to find himself cheering for Galvatron with a clear conscience.

Even if watching Galvatron lead his forces had felt like a kick in the struts to his own self-esteem. Galvatron made being in command look painfully easy. He seemed to be able to just pick a direction and _go_ and everyone would follow him, he could adapt and strategise on the wing when things went against him with a speed that left his troops scrambling to keep up rather than hanging around waiting for orders, and he never seemed to be at a loss for what to do next (even if that was often "shoot everything moving and sort it out later"). On the negative side, Rodimus knew full well that Galvatron ran the Decepticons as a total autocracy and anyone who crossed him got told where they could go and if necessary sent there at cannon-point; but deep down, he guiltily envied the sheer self-confidence that it must take to lead like that.

Much as Rodimus had hated Megatron, anyone would have to concede that the former Decepticon high commander had left behind a very big pair of boots. Which Galvatron hadn't so much filled as tossed in the trash and declared that his own were better anyway, and somehow he'd been able to deliver on that enough that the rest of the Decepticons were still mostly following him. _Must be nice not to feel like an overpromoted fraud every day of your life,_ Rodimus thought, more wistful than bitter.

He shifted his weight with a quiet creak of metal, breaking the stillness and his own train of thought before he could get too far down a track he didn't want to follow. "Credit for your thoughts?" he asked, careful to keep his tone somewhere in the vicinity of neutrally-friendly.

Galvatron startled at his voice and turned to look at him, but there was no overt aggression in the movement - indeed, as his optics met Rodimus's, he was smiling. "Hmm? I was just watching your victory celebrations!" He gestured to the bursts of colour in the distance. "Why, what were you thinking about?"

...way to drop himself in it. He hadn't, Rodimus realised shamefacedly, expected that Galvatron would actually be curious in return. The other mech never failed to be unpredictable. "I, uh, I was thinking about the battle today." He hesitated - but if he didn't say the next words that came to his processors, he'd kick himself forever for missing the chance. "I don't think we would've gotten out of that mess if you and your people hadn't shown up when you did and taken our side. Thank you, Galvatron."

"My pleasure!" Sparks flickered for a moment across Galvatron's helm, with a crackle like an echo of the fireworks above, and his fist briefly clenched. "I _hate_ Quintessons!" He tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Even more than I hate Autobots."

Rodimus's combat coding _twitched_. He overrode it, because- "Are you _teasing_ me?"

"I might be!" That half-hint of a grin wasn't going away. "You and your troops were doing well to hold your own when we got here, I was impressed! You deserved better than to be Quintesson slaves!"

Rodimus blinked. He'd always thought Decepticons didn't care who got enslaved as long as it wasn't them. Maybe Galvatron was different. He'd glimpsed an odd kind of honour in the other mech before now, after all; something he'd never seen in the likes of Megatron or Starscream.

Something that, in a strange way, felt _relatable_. "We did - uh, we were? Thanks." He ventured a smile. Galvatron's optics ranged contemplatively over him, and Rodimus's actuators tightened under the weight of that hot, curious crimson gaze. The memories he'd been trying to ignore earlier were flickering back.

_Like it or not, we are allies now, against a common foe..._

The echo in his thoughts almost made him miss Galvatron's actual words here and now. "I was surprised to find you alone, Prime! I'd thought you'd be celebrating with your fellow Autobots."

Rodimus winced as unobtrusively as he could. "Eh, they've got it in hand. I just wanted a few minutes to myself." _Just a moment or two without anyone expecting me to know what to say. Or worse, looking at me like they know damn well that I don't._

"Well, if you don't _want_ my company-!"

Primusdammit, how many ways could a mech put his foot in his own intake conduit? "No! I, uh, present company excepted." He offered a tentative, conciliatory smile, and relief flooded his circuits as Galvatron visibly relaxed again. "I'm actually kind of flattered you wanted to come and talk to me at all. I just..."

He trailed off. How did he begin to explain _I feel awkward around my own troops_ to someone who commanded the way Galvatron did? He wasn't sure Galvatron even had the software to feel awkward. "Ah, never mind. But yeah, please do stay if you want to."

"Hmm." Galvatron looked at him consideringly, optics gleaming beneath the shadow of his crown. "Very well!"

The silence hung between them, and then Rodimus burst out: "Why did you want to talk to me, anyway?" He wasn't sure he would get an answer, but he was going to explode if he didn't at least ask the question. His processors were trying too hard to guess, to project, to read something into this, and he knew Galvatron well enough to know that any guess he made would probably be way off the mark. "I mean, don't get me wrong, it's kind of a nice surprise, but I don't get it. What's this about, Galvatron?"

"Who else should I be talking to?" Galvatron blinked in what looked almost like surprise. "I'm hardly going to get a sensible conversation out of someone like Ultra Magnus, now am I?!"

Rodimus sputtered laughter before he could stop himself. "And you're expecting one from me?" he managed. Primus, something in his spark had _echoed_ to Galvatron's snippish comment - that had sounded, _felt_ , so much like the kind of thing a mutinous Hot Rod might once have said, or at least privately thought. "Sorry to disappoint you." He was surprised to realise how much he meant that.

Except that instead of evincing any kind of disappointment, Galvatron was laughing _with_ him, with a warmth that sounded sincere despite the harsh edge that never seemed to leave the warlord's tone. "I didn't say I was disappointed, Prime!"

"Well, I guess that makes you the first person who isn't." Primus, how had _that_ slipped out of his vocaliser?! He cringed, wondering if there was any possible way to brush his own words aside smoothly-

"What do you mean by that?!"

-that would be a no. He let out a groan. "Enh, I probably shouldn't have said that." He stared at the fireworks, not wanting to meet Galvatron's optics. "But I guess it's no big secret I'm not the greatest leader the Autobots ever had, is it?"

The quality of the tension in the air changed. His neural nets had been tingling with something he couldn't categorise, a combination of mechadrenaline and heightened awareness and a kind of giddy self-consciousness, his emotions pulled too many ways at once by being this close to the mech he feared and envied - and now owed a debt to - and, whisper it, _admired_. Now, his threat-assessment protocols flickered uncertainly as he heard Galvatron's engines growl, low and dangerous, and the whine of monstrous capacitor banks charging - that was the cannon, that _had_ to be Galvatron powering the cannon, nothing else on even his frame could possibly draw enough current to be audible at this distance...

His combat subroutines suggested _run_. His spark, acting on its own non-algorithmic logic, countermanded them. He tensed, held his ground-

"And _who_ ," Galvatron said, and all the laughter had gone from his voice and Rodimus could tell how serious this was because _Galvatron wasn't yelling_ , "says _that_?"

Once, Rodimus had gone driving outside Iacon on a stretch of what had looked like safe if unrestored highway. Right up until it gave way under his wheels, revealing an abyss that plunged kilometres into Cybertron's corroded heart. He felt now the way he'd felt then as he picked his way back to safety, testing every inch of road as he crept forward, trying to will himself to weigh less by sheer effort and praying to Primus not to fall.

And yet. He'd swear that the dark-haze anger that he could feel crackling in Galvatron's aura wasn't aimed at _him_. And Galvatron had come up here, sought him out, even almost complimented him with that comment about _doing well to hold your own_... and now he was asking about something Rodimus couldn't confess to _anyone_ on his own faction, and something wild and bitter and defiant that still lingered in his spark despite the Matrix's best efforts surged forward and demanded to be heard. _Just this once,_ alone on a rooftop with only an enemy at his side, could it really hurt to speak his spark?

"Nobody _says_ it," he said, and he didn't try to keep the hurt or the weariness from his voice. His gaze stayed fixed on the distant sky. "They just keep casually telling me what Optimus Prime would've done about something, or reminding me too often about fuel and recharge and code recompilations like I'm going to forget to look after myself if they don't, or _looking_ at me whenever I don't know something or haven't heard of something or I can't make the Matrix do whatever I'm supposed to make it do." Air hissed from his vents as he pushed it through his cooling systems, trying to keep his altmode engine from kicking on in response to the rush of mechadrenaline as the words ripped their way out of him. He was cranked tight enough, he didn't need any extra charge in his systems. "I know I suck at this, you know? I know I'm not Optimus, and I _never will be_ , but I'm the slagging _Chosen One_ , apparently, so _I_ don't get any choice. And I get that, I get that this is my life now and I'm trying not to hate it. I do care about Cybertron, I do care about my people, I understand I have to do this."

He turned to look desperately at Galvatron, and his spark jolted in his chest as he realised that the warlord was watching him intently. Galvatron's optics were hot and narrowed, his fist clenched, but he was _listening_ ; and somehow the sight gave Rodimus the courage to go on. "It would just be nice if people would stop treating me like this, you know? Like they can't make up their slagging minds whether they're disappointed in me or sorry for me so they're settling on both!" His voice cracked. "I know everyone wants Optimus back. I do too. Believe me, I'd sacrifice myself in a sparkpulse if I could bring him back in exchange. But I _can't_ , so I wish everyone would stop looking at me like his ghost is standing behind me!"

He hung his head. "Maybe it is for all I know. I guess I wouldn't be a good enough Prime to notice."

The final words fell into a silence that felt louder than a ticking bomb. Rodimus had time to realise that he was all unwittingly shaking down to his struts, and then Galvatron _reacted_. "What," the warlord snarled, his voice ragged with a wild yet terrifyingly focused rage, "is _wrong with them?!_ "

He stared at Rodimus, optics blazing, dentae bared and glinting; and Rodimus realised with a jolt that felt like that collapsing Iacon highway that Galvatron had said _them_ , not _you_. "What do you mean?" he managed, his spark spinning so fast he felt dizzy with it.

Galvatron growled, a low, raw sound like steel grinding on steel. "How dare they," he breathed, shaking his head. "How _dare_ they show you such disrespect! Don't they _understand_ what you did for them? _Rrrgh!_ " He looked Rodimus full in the face, and Rodimus stared into those burning crimson optics and couldn't have looked away if his life depended on it. "They weren't _there_ , Prime. And neither was their vaunted Optimus, and if he had been, I would have destroyed him! But _you_..." He snarled static through gritted dentae for a moment. "Whether the Autobots like it or not, the galaxy changed when Unicron fell... and you are the one who was there, and you _know_ that. You lead in the fashion that this new age demands, and you do it _well_. Didn't I say I was impressed only today when I watched you in battle with the Quintessons?!"

His tone shifted, not softening, but quieting to something even more fiercely intense. "Listen to me: Megatron was enough to defeat Optimus Prime. Even I haven't been able to stop _you_! You thwart my plans at every turn, you meet me in battle as though you know no fear, and you even keep your wits about you enough to taunt me now and then! You are a worthy rival, Rodimus. Even when I want to kill you I still have nothing but respect for you!" Hot light flickered in his optics, and he curled his lips in a smile that made Rodimus shiver with something that wasn't the fear it should have been. "So the next time your own people dare to belittle you, remember that!"

Rodimus realised his jaw was hanging open. With an effort, he closed it. His entire frame was prickling hot-and-cold, static crawling underneath his armour, and his processors felt like they were on the verge of stalling. What did he even say to that? "Whoa," he managed. "Thank - uh, thank you." Admittedly, having Galvatron's respect felt like a double-edged sword to say the least... but it felt like a thrill, too, and more than that, it unlocked words that he could never have contemplated saying before. "You know, I kinda feel the same way. I have to _stop_ you, because you're usually trying to destroy the universe or something and I'm not allowed to let you do that, but, uh, I respect you too. Always. Even when you're-" he gestured at the great cannon where it shimmered with heat-haze on Galvatron's gauntlet "-you know."

He was relieved when Galvatron laughed, the sound easing some of the excruciating tension between them. "Thank you!" He inclined his head slightly to Rodimus. "It's nice to know that someone does, given that I'm surrounded by insurgent incompetents most of the time!"

Rodimus snorted laughter. Sure, he'd noticed that the Decepticons had a loyalty problem - it was hard to miss with people like Blitzwing and Octane getting shot aft-over-thrusters when they stood up far enough over the parapet for Galvatron to spot them - but he'd just interpreted that as Decepticon-normal. He hadn't realised Galvatron was taking it so personally, but then again perhaps it wasn't surprising. "You know," he said, with daring fizzing in his circuitry like boosted energon, "I'm starting to think you and I have more in common than it looks like." He tilted his head quizzically. "Maybe?"

He wasn't sure what reaction he'd expected to get, but Galvatron's optics sparked and his expression sharpened. A ripple of something Rodimus couldn't make sense of ran through his aura; hot and bright, felt like a molten caress where the outer edges of Galvatron's electromagnetic fields overlapped with his own. Rodimus bit back a gasp as a tingling rush of energy pulsed through his core circuitry. That aura-touch hadn't felt like a threat. It had felt _enticing_ , tempting and wild, even the danger it implied only tugging harder on the instincts coded into him as a racer and fighter. Primus, what did Galvatron _want_ with him? Had that even been deliberate?

"Maybe you're right!" Galvatron's optics were fire-hot and Rodimus felt like that carmine gaze could see right through him, like Galvatron probably knew things about him that he didn't even know himself. The high harsh edge in the warlord's voice should have grated, but he'd somehow tuned it to a pitch that felt like rough fingertips tracing over Rodimus's spark and Rodimus shivered at the sensation. "We were forged to face each other, after all! We wouldn't make good enemies if we weren't enough alike." He smiled, silver-sharp in the dark.

 _Forged to face each other._ Officially, the Autobots didn't know where Galvatron and his wing had come from. They'd simply appeared in the aftermath of the Battle of Autobot City, replacing Megatron - and the rest of the Decepticon High Command, everyone had seen Starscream's livestreamed demise - with nobody daring to gainsay them. Everyone had a theory, from "survivors of a lost Decepticon warfleet" to "pre-Golden Age warbuilds dug up from cryo-storage by the High Council in desperation", but nobody knew the truth.

Rodimus guessed. He didn't like to think about it, but he'd been _there_. He'd seen Galvatron's enslavement to Unicron first hand. He could feel the dark energy that shimmered in Galvatron's aura sometimes when they fought, feel the way the Matrix snapped with restless blue fire in response to it. He wasn't sure the mech beside him was truly _Cybertronian_ at all... and if Rodimus had been raised by the Matrix to stand against Galvatron and Unicron, and if Galvatron thought _his_ assigned function was to battle Rodimus...

Rodimus tried to tell his racing lasercore pulse to slow down and temporarily put that thought process on pause. Asking Galvatron for his origin story probably wasn't going to end well, however much he wanted to know the truth; and somehow, despite the terrifying implications of the warlord's words, it also didn't feel like the most important issue right now. "That's how it is, huh?" he said, and he tried with all his spark to keep his usual flippancy intact but he had a feeling Galvatron probably wasn't buying it. "So, uh. This might be naive of me, but... if you agree we that have so much in common-" _however much that was_ , although the fact that he was feeling more like _himself_ in this conversation than he had since the fall of Unicron probably said a lot "-d'you think there's any chance we could try _not_ being enemies instead?"

 _If it was that easy,_ said a voice in his thoughts that sounded distressingly like a very weary Optimus Prime, _don't you think this war would have been over nine million years ago?_

 _Yes,_ he thought with a momentary plunge of doubt, and then, _but no. That was that war, not this war. That was Megatron and Optimus. This is me and Galvatron, and we haven't tried this yet. What have I got to lose by asking?_

Galvatron blinked. Surprise flashed bright in his fields even as his mouth quirked on the edge of laughter. "Interesting suggestion, Prime, but you won't get rid of me that easily!"

Despite the words there was still something playful in his voice, and that, against all odds, had Rodimus clinging to desperate hope. "Who said I wanted to get rid of you?" he countered, trying to match that teasing tone. "I don't know about you but I thought we made a pretty good team shooting Quintessons earlier on." Admittedly Galvatron's faction had done most of the late-battle heavy lifting, but the Autobots had been contributing everything they had left and keeping the Quints distracted while the _Dis_ poured on fire, they certainly hadn't been _useless_. "I just said we don't have to be enemies, not that we can't be something else instead."

"A valid point!" Galvatron tilted his head thoughtfully, seemingly contemplating Rodimus's words. "So, if not enemies... what do you want us to be?!"

The response on the tip of his glossa morphed between the politically-appropriate _allies_ , and the Autobot-reflexive _friends_. Neither word actually escaped his vocaliser. What _did_ he want? And was Galvatron going to take it seriously whatever he said? He could be on the verge of ending the Autobot-Decepticon war in one conversation... or this might all count for nothing by tomorrow morning. What was he supposed to do?

He wasn't being helped to think by the way Galvatron was watching him, curious, _waiting_ for his reply. Most of his friends, he thought, would never have believed that Galvatron could display the patience of a diplomat even for the span of one conversation-

Then again, the other Autobots hadn't been there when they'd faced each other in the terrible shadows of a dark god's CPU core. He'd never told anyone that Galvatron had tried to reach out to him once before. This felt like a chance to finally answer that offer with one of his own - but what could, _should_ , he propose? _Allies_ was political, rational, logical, and probably what Optimus Prime would've said. _Friends_ by comparison might be naive, but it was still the instinctive Autobot thing to suggest.

Neither word felt like it captured the racing pulse of his spark and the dizziness he felt as he stared at Galvatron's face in the shimmering, firework-lit darkness. The warlord was so striking, his design language somewhere between exotic and archaic, his keen, angular features so classically Decepticon but unexpectedly beautiful when they weren't twisted in rage. Rodimus's gaze tracked the slick gleams of multicoloured light that played like oil over the barrel of Galvatron's cannon and the heavy-sleek armoured curves of his pauldrons and thighs. His EM sensors prickled with the hot, sweet burn of Galvatron's plasma-boosted aura washing over them - had he leaned closer into the other mech's fields without noticing himself doing it?

He was staring. He was staring and he'd left it too long to answer Galvatron's question. He realised, all at once, that he wasn't answering because the answer he wanted to give was one that nobody, probably including Galvatron, would ever forgive him for.

_But he asked me what I WANT. When was the last time anyone asked me that?_

"Galvatron?"

"Rodimus?"

"What would happen right now if I kissed you?"

"What?!" Galvatron startled at the question - and then grinned, his optics sparkling wickedly. "I don't know," he said. "You'd have to try it to find out!"

"Oh, Primus damn _everything_ ," Rodimus said, and leaned over before he could lose his nerve and did it.

And Galvatron didn't pull away, or push _him_ away, or _shoot_ him. Rather, the warlord's lips parted and then locked with his, and it was... _oh_. Galvatron tasted like the aftermath of a firefight, the sweetness of scorched energon and the bitter black of carbon lingering on his mouth, and his lips were _hot_ and so was the rest of him, plasma-glow soaking through his plating and into Rodimus's systems. And he didn't ask Rodimus if he was sure about this. Didn't tell him how many ways it might go wrong, didn't look at him with optics full of unvoiced skepticism. He simply leaned into the kiss, confident and natural, as though Rodimus had just done something perfectly reasonable and Galvatron was totally at ease with participating in it.

Of all the things that could have happened, good or bad, _that_ was probably the last one Rodimus had expected.

It wasn't, quite, the first time he'd ever kissed anyone. As Hot Rod, he'd tried it with Arcee after a long and awkward and somewhat drunken conversation that could only have happened between two newbuilds neither of whom wanted to be pushed into something they weren't ready for, and it had been... well, her expression of wry affection when she drew back had said it all. Whatever it was that you were supposed to feel when you kissed someone, the race of charge through circuits and the tightness in your spark and the intoxicating high that would make you do utterly stupid things for the sake of kissing that person again... neither of them had felt it. "I guess we're not that kind of compatible," she'd said, with a half-apologetic smile, and he had agreed with good grace and they were still best friends and it was fine. Maybe it was just a stupid story anyway, not a real thing that actually happened.

But now all of a sudden it _was_ a real thing after all, hot and bright and sweet and wild, and he was arching up into it helplessly and he could feel his engines racing and his systems heating up and he never wanted it to stop... except that dear Primus this was _Galvatron_ whose mouth on his was doing this to him. And okay, he'd always known he liked to live dangerously, but _he hadn't thought he meant this dangerously oh help._

He should pull away. He should stop this now before it got him in any further over his head, probably apologise to Galvatron and possibly take a well-earned plasma bolt to the face for it, and then go and apologise to everyone on his own faction up to and including Primus Himself because _what in the Pit was he doing._ Except that _Galvatron_ wasn't pulling away, he'd wrapped his left hand across Rodimus's back and was drawing him _closer_ , and he was teasing his glossa between Rodimus's parted lips like he knew _exactly_ what he was doing and had no hesitation at all about doing more of it, and Rodimus did _not_ want to stop him because it felt strut-shiveringly wonderful. This, very clearly, wasn't Galvatron's first kiss either.

Which of course made Rodimus wonder who _was_ ; and the name that flashed straight to the front of his processors was _Cyclonus_ , because even from the opposite side of a battlefield you'd have to have your optics switched off to miss the way the Decepticon jetwarrior looked at his lord. And that sent a jolt through Rodimus that he couldn't even call jealousy, because if it was, it was only jealousy of how good that must have felt, love and lust and loyalty all tangled up in the same place, and of how damned lucky Cyclonus was if he could have _this_ any time Galvatron deigned to grant it. Rodimus squirmed because he felt like he had sheet lightning on the inside of his armour and moaned desperately into Galvatron's mouth, and his hands had somehow found their way to Galvatron's flank and the back of his helm and this had escalated beyond kissing, this was totally him _making out_ with the leader of the Decepticons on an Iacon rooftop. He wasn't sure anymore whether the fireworks were inside or outside his own cranial unit, but _oh Primus if this was wrong don't make him be right_.

He clutched at Galvatron, tilting his head back to let the warlord claim his mouth but running his hands over Galvatron's back in exchange. The other mech's aura blazed like a beacon even through his heavy armour, intoxicatingly bright and hot, _wild_ like nothing else Rodimus had ever felt. Galvatron's systems were so absurdly overclocked that being this close to him, _touching_ him, was nearly overwhelming. Rodimus felt like he was drowning in fire and molten gold, soaked in that same unidentifiable-but-delicious emotion he'd picked up in Galvatron's fields before...

It dawned on him, far too belatedly, to wonder: _is this how it feels when someone wants you?_ He'd been propositioned before but it had always been casually, and he'd never accepted because he hadn't wanted _casual_ , certainly not for his first time. He knew some mechs thought he was attractive enough, but he'd never felt anything like this. Like he had all of someone's attention and interest, undivided, and they were hungry to touch and taste and _take_ him, simply because he was _him_.

And now, finally, he _was_ getting all of that and it was glorious, _perfect_ , and he could feel it tugging an answering, spark-deep hunger out of him in turn. He whimpered against Galvatron's mouth - _please-!_ \- and Galvatron made a muffled sound in reply that Rodimus suspected was a laugh at his eagerness and he couldn't even bring himself to mind-

//Rodimus? Everything cool up there? Your and Galvatron's transponders are practically on top of each other. If he's giving you any trouble-//

 _Oh Primus not now._ Guilt and shame crashed through him as he was wrenched out of the dizzy rush of delight that had been consuming his processors. //Huh - Jazz? Jazz, my mech, I'm fine. We're just - diplomatting, not fighting. Trust me.// He tried desperately to keep his voice from shaking.

//I trust you, Rod, I don't trust _him_. Let me know if ya need the cavalry, okay?//

//I will.// He closed the channel and tried to lose himself in the kiss again, but the damage was done. A moment later he broke away with a groan, and Galvatron let him go without objection. "Oh, Primus. I really should not be doing this."

He looked down, ashamed of himself - as much for disappointing Galvatron, as for fraternising with his nemesis in the first place. _It's not fair,_ some wild voice deep in his spark cried out in despair. He'd finally found someone who could make him feel like _that_ , and it was the last slagging person he ought to be anywhere near. Of course Jazz didn't trust Galvatron, of course _none_ of his friends would, of course he couldn't expect any of them to understand why he'd done this if they ever found out. Primus, why could he never catch a break? All they'd done was kiss and touch and it wasn't like Galvatron had even been pushing for anything Rodimus didn't want, _why did this have to be wrong?_

"That's a pity," Galvatron observed, sounding surprisingly less annoyed than Rodimus had expected. "I was enjoying it!"

"So was I, that's the problem." He covered his face with his hands - mostly to give them something to do that wasn't reaching for Galvatron again. "Dammit. I should go." He didn't _want_ to, he ached for more of Galvatron's touch and his kisses and this strange tentative connection between the two of them that seemed to demand so little of him and offer so much; but the guilt had its claws all the way into him now. He wanted... he couldn't.

He looked Galvatron in the face, though, because it felt like the least he could do. "...thanks."

Galvatron nodded to him; military-casual, one commander to another, a smile touching his lips. "My pleasure, Rodimus!" He rose easily to his feet, his silhouette dark against the stars. "Another time, perhaps!"

And then he was gone, straight up and away in a roar of thrusters without condescending to anything so vanilla as _stairs_. Rodimus stared after him, feeling like his spark was going to break out of his lasercore and fly in pursuit. The silence left behind in the fading wake of his enemy's departure rang too loud to bear.

 _Worst Prime ever,_ his conscience told him, filling the emptiness all too eagerly. _You had one micron-thin chance to negotiate, to talk, to try and make peace for Primus' sake, and you threw it away on THAT?_

 _I didn't throw it away._ His spark ached like it was breaking, but it still fought back. _We did talk. We both reached out and we both listened to each other. He said he respected me. That isn't nothing._

_Maybe he said that. You think he respects you now after you threw yourself at him like that?_

_Slag you. He kissed me BACK._

//Rod? Tracking says Galvatron just blazed outta there like you kicked him in the skidplate. You okay?//

//Huh? Oh - yeah, relax, Jazz. Everything's fine. I'm coming back down.//

//Roger that, Prime.// Jazz sounded relieved. Rodimus winced.

 _Everything's fine._ If he kept telling himself that it might even come true.


	22. Hurt/comfort - Scourge/Cyclonus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scourge/Cyclonus, for the prompt "Hurt/comfort". This is set a few months after _Transformers: The Movie_ and leads right into the opening of _Five Faces of Darkness_. Everyone's hurting, everyone's hungry, nobody is having a good time but Scourge is too stubborn to leave it at that. Warnings for both voluntary and involuntary starvation (fuel shortages being a major plot point), implied suicidal ideation, depression, grief, and general emotional pain; the porn in this one is mostly of the emotional variety, the physical intimacy doesn't go beyond light petting. Rated PG-13, more for the above content warnings than any actual sex.

It was a very small energon cube.

Scourge turned it over in his claws. Pink so pale it was almost colourless, barely glowing, the lowest grade energon could possibly be and still retain any value as fuel at all. He could hold it easily in one hand.

And technically only half of it was even his.

For a moment, as he stared at it and at the amber-lit runes in the corner of his visual display, he did consider drinking the whole thing and pretending ignorance later. The opportunist selfishness that he didn't remember being capable of before _then_ sat uneasily in his processors, and he was still working out where the limits were on its safe indulgence. But right now he was hungry enough that the issue felt like a pressing one.

_Just drink it. Likely as not he won't even take his share and you'd get it anyway. Save both of you the conversation._

It was a simple, seductive line of logic, but even as he considered it, an equally self-centred counter-argument wound its way through his processors. _On the other wing, if he keeps refusing fuel and you make it that easy for him, sooner or later he's going to go offline for good. And then you'll be alone, with-_

-his thoughts were interrupted by the perfectly-timed sound of clashing metal and underpowered gunfire in the distance, as a handful of Decepticons wasted the last of their current fuel to fight over the next batch-

_-them._

The thought of that, of being so utterly alone and inevitably following his wingmate offline in short order - _he_ certainly couldn't discipline the rest of the Decepticon rabble into anything that would offer a better possible outcome - made his spark shrink in his chest. His short life so far had been nothing but a litany of losses. He had to try and stop it somewhere.

Mind made up, he set off, trudging wearily across the broken ground of this burned-out, shadowed world that they were tentatively calling their own. Flying, while quicker, would have put him up there with the Cybertronian Decepticons in the "idiots wasting fuel" stakes, so he resisted the temptation. At least his enhanced perceptions made it easy to go in the right direction without taking any unintended detours.

He found Cyclonus where Cyclonus was usually to be found, sitting on the steps of the huge, rusting stone-and-iron needle that they had nicknamed the Cenotaph. Standing on a spur of raised ground overlooking a wide swathe of Charr's ancient cityscape, the monument's original significance was long lost - the incised runes on its base had been worn too faint by the endless sand-laden winds for even Scourge to make much out of them - but everyone had had the thought of the dead both named and nameless in their minds when the fleeing Decepticons had found this world. The name had stuck for reasons that felt too obvious to bear comment.

Scourge climbed the slope, ascended the steps, and sat down beside his wingmate. Cyclonus barely twitched, only his dimmed and threadbare aura brushing against Scourge's equally tattered fields in something approximating welcome. There was a moment's silence before Scourge ventured to hold out the energon cube. "Brought fuel," he offered.

"I'm fine," Cyclonus said. The words lagged behind where they should have been, his voice low and toneless. "You take it."

The wind whistled around the Cenotaph, dry and empty. Scourge sat and contemplated the cube and briefly allowed himself the temptation. It would be the work of a moment to down the whole thing, to watch those amber gauges tick up by a percent or two...

...and then tomorrow they'd be here again, and he'd be just as hungry as he was now and Cyclonus would be another day closer to shutting down forever. "You _can't_ be fine," he said, with a growl in his voice that was more frustration and worry than anger. "You use more fuel than I do and you're taking even less. Are you sitting here pretending you're thinking because you can't _move_ any more? Is that it?"

"I can move." Cyclonus finally turned to look at him, as though to underscore the point. "I simply don't see much reason to do it." The distance in his gaze and the hollow, expressionless set of his face were almost enough to make Scourge flinch from him.

He resisted the impulse. _He's your wingmate, not a ghost... not yet, anyway. Don't be a coward._ "You're grieving for him, aren't you?"

"And you aren't?"

The very fact that Cyclonus didn't say "Whom?" was all the proof Scourge needed. "We don't even know that he's dead," he said. "If he comes back-"

"Scourge." And finally, Cyclonus's too-calm voice cracked. "Even _you_ haven't been able to find any trace of him. What do you want me to believe?"

"Not that he's _gone_ ," Scourge said. "Not just on the strength of that." Denigrating his own abilities stung a little on what pride he had, but it was better than letting Cyclonus think like that. "I may be able to see across the sector, but I still have to know where to _look_. A micro-degree vector error here could mean I miss something by a thousand astrometres if it's far enough away."

He stared at the sky, watching the stars spread out before him to the edge of infinity. Most of his power-hungry ranged sensors were offline at the moment anyway, starving as he was. For once, he was seeing the galaxy much as anyone else did.

"If he were alive," Cyclonus said, "why wouldn't he have found us?"

"Maybe he doesn't know where to look either." They had, after all, picked Charr precisely for its galactic insignificance. A world where the Autobots or any other hostiles wouldn't be likely to look for them had seemed like a good idea, but Scourge hadn't considered at the time that there was one person whom the two of them _would_ very much want to be found by. "And if he gets here and finds that you've starved yourself offline, what do you think he's going to say?"

"Do you really believe that's going to happen?" Cyclonus asked bitterly.

But he had flinched, Scourge had felt it in his aura like a flame guttering in the wind. He pressed the scrap of advantage as best he could. "If you die, all that's going to be left is me and those fools over there." He gestured in the direction of the Decepticons' half-hearted attempt at a base. "And I'd be lucky to last long anyway, once you weren't here. You still scare them. I don't."

The words were bitter, but he knew they were true. Of the two of them, Cyclonus had somehow become the one whose presence temporarily quelled the others' bickering and pulled them into some semblance of discipline. Scourge, for all his menacing appearance, didn't have the comparable strength of will to back it up; which made it all the more frustrating that Cyclonus had sunk into brooding like this, that he wasn't going down there and _using_ that ability for... something.

Cyclonus didn't rise to the prompting this time, either. He sighed and looked away, out across the ancient dead city below them. "Drink your energon, Scourge."

Scourge gave the cube a resigned look. Half of it was his anyway; if he drank that, they could just as well argue about who got the rest afterwards. Still, he hesitated, gazing unseeing into the pale plasma-fluid and thinking.

 _Thinking_ , at least to this extent, still felt uncomfortably novel, and he suspected that neither he nor Cyclonus had fully adjusted to it yet. Their creator had given them sparks, making them technically free-willed beings, but he had filled most of the space in their processors with subroutines of his own vast intelligence. They had been self-aware, but only from within the confines of a governing will that dictated their responses and controlled their perceptions. They had known what they were for, they had known whom they served, and neither of them had questioned any of it because there had been no incentive to do so. It had been so simple and so _satisfying_ to run on the rails they were given and use the power that was conferred upon to them to do it - so why seek anything else?

Galvatron had been different. He had resisted from the first, the greater fire that Unicron had put into him burning too hot to stay within its containment. He had challenged and demanded and _questioned_ , even when he was hideously punished for it. Scourge remembered - dimly, fragmentedly, most of his memories from _before_ had been corrupted to some degree by the severance-trauma of his creator's death and the sudden snap of the controlling bond between them - trying to warn his wingleader to bend his neck and obey, not to court their maker's wrath. Unicron had created them; he could just as easily destroy them.

He'd been the coward of the three of them even when his mind was barely his own, he thought, with some bitterness. And it had never occurred to him then that Unicron himself could be destroyed, much less that in that event they might do anything other than die with him. The blast that had torn Unicron's vast frame to scraps of orbital debris had struck him and Cyclonus and even the _Dis_ and the Sweeps as a more than physical force, a cataclysm of agony as four-fifths of what they had thought was _them_ was torn out by the roots. Somehow their core coding had filled the space left behind, unfolding and self-editing to turn them into free creatures with enough minds and personalities of their own to keep functioning; but it had _hurt_ , and Scourge still felt as though he had empty corners in his cranial space where the wind blew through. He felt _unfinished_ , adrift, directionless and lost, but the stubborn prompting of a warframe's survival instinct kept him fighting the others for scraps of energon and trying to think of a plan worth following. He wasn't sure he'd even finished becoming alive yet. It felt like far too soon to give up and die.

Now if only he could get Cyclonus to share his point of view. Scourge knew without question, deep in the root-coding that had been there intact from the moment of his creation, that he and Cyclonus and Galvatron were supposed to be _together_. The two of them were built to be Galvatron's left and right hands, to do his bidding and to complement each other's roles. Scourge and his Sweeps as scouts and outriders, Cyclonus and the Armada as the heavy cavalry to sweep in and destroy in their wake, with Galvatron leading and directing the whole - that had been their purpose, their combat doctrine, the foundations of everything they were.

But all of that structure had fallen apart. The Armada had been destroyed even before Unicron's death, leaving Cyclonus off-balance and alone; the Sweeps, those who survived, had somehow developed _personalities_ despite being sparkless drones and now Scourge felt inexplicably beholden to protect them. Galvatron, their leader, their linchpin, had been devoured whole by Unicron as a final judgement on his defiance, and now he was _gone_. Despite his encouragement to Cyclonus, Scourge had no proof that his wingleader was alive.

And yet, deep down, he refused to accept that Galvatron wasn't. Nobody could claim they had witnessed his demise or seen his empty shell, so there was no confirmation. Superstitious though it might be, Scourge somehow felt that if Galvatron was truly dead, he and Cyclonus would _know_. So the very fact that they were still arguing about it meant, by that logic, that he wasn't.

On the other wing, the fact that they were arguing at all said a lot about how much things had changed. In one sense he knew Cyclonus down to his blueprints and his spark, but in another and very real one, he had little to no idea what was going on in the other mech's processors now. That... hurt. It made him feel alone even sitting next to his wingmate, as though there was a crack in the universe running between them and he didn't know how to cross it.

And even little things like trying to offer half an energon cube didn't seem to be getting through. Scourge sighed and gave in, lifting the cube to his lips and taking a careful drink from it. The near-colourless energon was nearly flavourless as well, but his empty systems absorbed it gratefully despite its failings and he had to force himself to pull the cube away without draining it. A desperate little flutter of relief, half drowned out by the stab of hunger that was only intensified by adding those few drops of fuel to his tanks, rippled through his fields; he didn't have the mental focus to damp it down.

If he had, though, he wouldn't have felt the flicker in Cyclonus's aura that echoed it. Scourge tensed, trying as unobtrusively as he could to read his wingmate's fields. Was that just an answering system-level shiver of hunger, since Cyclonus's diagnostics must be pinging him red readings even if he was choosing to ignore them?

Or had it been real emotion, a conscious or subconscious desire to reach out to him? He ventured to look tentatively at his companion. "Cyclonus?"

"Do you really believe," Cyclonus said, very quietly and without looking at him in return, "that he could be alive?"

Scourge stopped on the edge of an answer as though at the brink of the abyss. His first instinct was to say _yes_ , but Cyclonus's doubt was corroding into him too now. _Alive_ didn't necessarily mean they could find him before they starved to death themselves. It didn't even guarantee _whole_ or _functional_ or _sane_ , considering that their last sight of their wingleader had been of him falling into Unicron's open maw. And yet...

If they gave up now, if _either_ of them gave up, they lost any chance they had left of ever finding out. "I think if he wasn't, we'd both feel even worse than we do now." He rested his claws over his lasercore shielding. "I think we'd _know_."

A shiver ran through Cyclonus's frame, and Scourge heard the subtle thrum of metal as his wings vibrated with it. "I..." Cyclonus trailed off. "He was my _pilot_ , Scourge. You couldn't understand what that means."

It was true, Scourge knew, even though his spark protested at what felt like a deliberate attempt to push yet more barriers between them. His altmode didn't have space or controls for a pilot, there was nothing in his coding that would _let_ him understand - but he wasn't totally without empathy. He could at least guess at how much it must hurt to be slave-coded to a touch you never expected to feel again.

Saying as much probably wouldn't help. "Then wherever he is, likely he needs you as much as you need him. And yet you're giving up?" The words were harsh, he knew that, but he was starting to think that Cyclonus's armour was too thick for gentleness to get through it. Maybe a sharper edge would reach deeper, deep _enough_.

"If you can tell me how you think we can _find_ him," Cyclonus said, and he didn't question Scourge's tone any more than Scourge had challenged his, "I'm listening."

That, of course, was the unanswerable objection. Scourge had already admitted that he hadn't been able to find Galvatron thus far, and he was getting too low on fuel himself to keep running his extended sensory suite to continue the search. The window of opportunity was narrowing every day they stayed on this dead-end of a world. Much longer and it would close altogether.

And then inspiration struck him, and he recoiled from it but instantly knew he had found the best answer he was going to. "I do have one idea."

He felt the sudden sharp tingle of alertness through Cyclonus's fields, saw the faded light finally brighten in his optics as he turned to give Scourge his attention. "Tell me."

"We go back." His lasercore pulse was speeding up just at the thought, systems too drained for fear still trying to summon the energy for it, but he kept talking. "We know where we saw him last. If we can get into - into _his_ memory banks, we can see what really happened. We'll _know_ whether Galvatron's alive and where to start looking for him."

He saw shock in Cyclonus's face, but seeing any emotion there at all felt like a victory. "It makes sense," the warrior said. Behind his optics and beneath the weight of his armour, Scourge could see the flicker of code and systems coming back online, as though Cyclonus was pulling himself back from the brink of shutdown by main force of will now that he had a reason to do it. " _If_ we have enough fuel to get there-?"

"We'll find enough." Scourge made a meaningful gesture in the direction of the Decepticon base. "We can take theirs if we have to. Only you and I need go." He held out the remaining half a cube of energon, yet again. "And you can start with this."

Cyclonus reached out. "Give me that."

"I've been trying to," Scourge couldn't help retorting.

Their fingers touched as Cyclonus practically snatched the cube out of his hand, and Scourge's sensornets tingled at the brush of metal on metal. This version of Cyclonus - alert, commanding, paying attention to the galaxy and prepared to impose his will on it - was an almost total transformation from the dead-mech-walking he'd been dealing with for the last months, and the change was so abrupt and such a relief that Scourge felt as though his processors were falling over themselves trying to adjust to it. The pulse of power and hunger through Cyclonus's aura as he drained the cube in a single swift pull made his own fields quiver in response, and he was startled by the sudden intense feeling that he wanted something very badly but didn't know what it was.

Uncertain, needing, he reached out before he could second-guess himself and let his fingertips brush his wingmate's arm. "Cyclonus?"

"What?"

"...I don't know."

He was trembling, his claws shaking enough that they rattled against Cyclonus's armour. Cyclonus gave him a sharp look, but tossed the empty energon cube away, letting it vanish into nothingness, and with both hands he grasped Scourge's arms and pulled him closer.

And that was - _yes_ , that _helped_ , being drawn into the inner layers of Cyclonus's aura and feeling the unexpected strength that the warrior still had in his grip despite the weakness that his hunger must have inflicted on him. He looked up, optics wide, as Cyclonus bent his head.

The brows of their helms touched with a subdued chime of steel. They stared into each other's optics in mutual confusion. "What-" Cyclonus began, at the same time as Scourge muttered "I'm-" and tried, embarrassed, to flinch away.

"Hmh." And Cyclonus, with half a smile and a decisiveness that Scourge envied, shifted his grip and wrapped both arms around him.

" _Oh-_ " He felt, abruptly, as though he'd never been warm in his life before this moment. His own hands slid clumsily around Cyclonus's back and they pulled each other closer, metal scuffing against metal, faces hidden in each other's shoulders. Cyclonus's tattered fields meshed and merged with his and Scourge could _feel_ him, almost painfully vividly: hunger and exhaustion and weary strength, bitter grief and a new-forged, scarred yet stubborn hope. Cyclonus wasn't locking down anything, not his pain or his longing or the ache of loneliness that ran just as deep as Scourge's own, and in the rush of sudden, unexpected intimacy Scourge felt as though he _knew_ his wingmate again at long last. " _Cyc,_ " he implored, the nickname coming unbidden to his lips. "Please-"

"I'm still here," Cyclonus murmured. "You're right. We can't give up."

His hand had settled in the hollow below the baseplates on Scourge's back that anchored his wings, and for some reason being touched there was making Scourge's sensornets tingle and his lasercore pulse try to quicken. Opportunist instinct kicked in again - _that's good, take it while it's there!_ \- and this time he didn't question it, arching his back to open that sensitive spot up a little more to the seemingly unthinking pressure of Cyclonus's fingers. This wasn't like stealing energon, he wasn't taking anything _away_ from Cyclonus by taking this - so there couldn't be anything wrong with it. Could there?

"Scourge..." Cyclonus either didn't mind or didn't even notice because he wasn't pulling away, and the ragged softness in his voice made Scourge's spark ache. It seemed as though Cyclonus had finally _noticed_ him, finally remembered though the fog of his grief and loss that he still had one wingmate alive and beside him. And now he was holding Scourge like he was actually worth something, and Scourge couldn't remember anything better than this ever happening to him in his brief life.

"We'll find him," he promised, and hoped he wasn't lying. "We have to. We all need each other." It was as close as he dared come to admitting how desperate he was to stay in Cyclonus's arms.

He felt Cyclonus nod against his collar and the warrior didn't take his touch away, only flexed his fingers to grip Scourge tighter. Scourge instinctively responded in kind... then winced as his claws scraped Cyclonus's canopy and the miniaturised panes of his cockpit glass. Damn it all, if he screwed this up it would _stop_ and that rift between them would be back again and he'd still be alone-

-and Cyclonus hissed softly but the emotion that rippled through his fields felt like subtle, startled _pleasure_ , and he pressed Scourge closer instead of pushing him away. Scourge made a small sound of surprise and clung to him, and very tentatively twitched his claws again. Had he done right? Did Cyclonus, too, have something in his systems that made him hungry to be touched?

It would make sense if he did, Scourge realised almost at once, remembering Cyclonus's earlier words. Cyclonus had the command-interface coding that let Galvatron pilot him; he was _designed_ to be touched, and not necessarily gently. Scourge might not be Galvatron - and didn't venture to delude himself that he could ever compare - but he was _here_ and willing to offer what he could, and Cyclonus groaned and arched into Scourge's hands just as Scourge had into his. The pulse of his spark quickened against Scourge's, perceptible even through the doubled thickness of armour between them, and Scourge shivered, thrilled by the idea that he had something his wingmate _wanted_. It felt like power of a kind he'd never had before, and he stroked Cyclonus carefully with just the lightest scratch of his claws to try and find the limits of it.

And Cyclonus stroked back, his fingertips searching deeper into that sensitive spot under Scourge's backplates, and if this was power then it went both ways but Scourge thought that might not be so bad. His tensor cables twitched tight at the sensation, his engines whined tentatively and he gasped. "What _is_ this?" he managed, in a nervous whisper.

"I don't know, but it's using fuel," Cyclonus answered him equally softly, and Scourge would have sworn to the hint of a wry laugh in his voice. "Perhaps we should save it." He sat back a little, though he didn't let his hands leave Scourge's plating.

Disappointment panged through him - but the space between them was still filled with the threadbare warmth of their mingled fields, the aether silver of Cyclonus's aura bleeding softly into the shadows of his own, and Cyclonus had only said _save it_ , he hadn't said _stop_. Whatever this tentative bond between them was, perhaps it wouldn't dissolve the instant they took their hands off each other. Perhaps it really would keep for later.

Scourge looked up at his wingmate - he almost dared to think _friend_ , now - and nodded. "We know what we need to do," he said. "The sooner we get it over with the better."

"Agreed." Cyclonus finally let go, but it didn't hurt as much as Scourge had expected it to. Warmth lingered in his sensornets where the touch had been, even as the two of them rose - slightly unsteadily, in Cyclonus's case - to their feet. "Come on."

Scourge followed him.

***

The scene back at the stretch of ground upon which the Cybertronian Decepticons had chosen to fight and fall - or at least to fight each other and fall over from empty tanks - was approximately what Scourge had expected: a dishevelled heap of scuffed and dented mechs who were wasting more fuel than they were getting into their mouths by quarrelling uselessly over who got what. Most couldn't even stand up.

Still, there were a lot of guns on display and some of them might have a few charges left. "Beware of treachery," Cyclonus murmured warningly as the two of them and the Sweeps came in to land.

They'd only taken off just out of sight a moment before, but Cyclonus had contended that it was worth the brief expenditure of fuel to make a suitably imposing entrance. And imposing was the word for it, Scourge thought, as Cyclonus drew himself up to his full height, wings flexed wide, and fixed the shambolic assembly before them with a piercing look of disdain.

"Once Decepticons nearly held the quadrant through terror," he growled, loud enough to get everyone's attention and showing nothing of the weakness Scourge knew he was feeling. The contempt in his tone bit like a lash. "Now we scrap like slargs over a few energon cubes. _Is this how you honour the memory of Galvatron?_ Is this the fate of the mighty Decepticon empire?!"

A sweet little lick of vindictive pleasure coiled through Scourge's circuits at the sight of the other Decepticons cowering guiltily from Cyclonus's anger. _This_ was what he'd been hoping Cyclonus would finally be willing to do, to play the part that Scourge himself couldn't. It took a certain amount of vulgar theatre to command among the Decepticons, and Scourge wholly lacked the temperament for it - he was built for the shadows, for stealth, for subtlety. Cyclonus, conversely, was both charismatic enough and just enough of a heavy weapon that he could act up, in more senses than one, to the demands of a command role.

Even so, Astrotrain, the big triple-changer whom Scourge was darkly certain was a traitor sparked, dared to reply. "In the days of Megatron it was not like this," he snarled, sullen.

Cyclonus's wings twitched, but he did a good job of hiding his reaction to that name - Scourge didn't quite manage not to wince, but fortunately nobody was looking at him. "You mean Galvatron," Cyclonus corrected sharply.

Nostalgia was going to have to be made a disciplinary offence at this rate. " _Hail Galvatron!_ " Scourge called out, snapping off a salute; the Sweeps followed suit, drowning out whatever rebelliousness Astrotrain mumbled in answer. Megatron was gone and he wasn't coming back. The Decepticons needed to remember that.

Not least because if they were still muttering about Megatron when _Galvatron_ came back, they'd all be worse than sorry. He watched as Cyclonus pulled out his pistol and went around collecting the remaining scattered energon cubes, keeping his own weapon ready in his hand to take care of any opportunistic treachery. "If you cannot lift yourselves out of your disgrace," Cyclonus growled, casting a quelling look around him, "we will see it done for you! Come, Sweeps!"

Nobody fired after them as they took off, which Scourge inwardly counted as a victory. Cyclonus tossed another washed-out energon cube to him and he caught it eagerly. //Are you sure,// he asked privately, //that we can't just execute all of them and save fuel that way?//

//Galvatron declared himself leader of the Decepticons,// Cyclonus replied, though with a sigh that suggested a private sympathy with the idea. The theatricality of moments ago was gone from his tone as though it had never been. //If he wanted them, whatever his reasons, we should keep them alive for him when we find him.//

Scourge smiled to himself in relief at that unthinking, unqualified _when_. //All right.//


	23. Service kink - Cyclonus/Scourge/Rodimus Prime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cyclonus&Scourge/Rodimus Prime, with a bit of Galvatron/Rodimus on the side, for the prompt "Service kink". This fic brought to you by an afternoon spent stripping the brakes on my car, because that was when it occurred to me that the word "service" has more than one meaning to a machine. Another entry in the category of "Rodimus Prime deserves more nice things", basically; so this is more or less fluff. Warnings: I suppose kinda-sorta medical kink, though not very recognisable as such by human standards. Angst, feels, caretaking, polyamory/polyfidelity, D/s dynamics, a bit of hurt/comfort, bad self-care and related interventions. Rated M.

"You haven't had that knee servo checked over yet."

Rodimus Prime startled at the words. "How do you know that?" he demanded, apparently realising only too late that that was as good as confirming his guilt.

Scourge gave him a look. "Because it's still creaking the same way it was last time you came here," the tracker explained reasonably.

"It's not creaking!"

"Maybe not to _you_ ," Scourge said. "But trust me, it is."

Rodimus looked away. "Well, if it's annoying you-"

"Not as such, but isn't it annoying you?"

They were in the observation deck of the _Dis_ , high on the top of the warship's vast hull. Plate armourglass windows arched overhead and around them, displaying the starscape of Charr in a glittering swathe of light. A large elliptical plinth bench in the room's centre allowed an observer to sit or recline in comfort and stare at the stars - as Rodimus was currently doing, while Scourge perched on the edge of the bench beside him. Cyclonus was at the forward end of the deck, his hand resting lightly on the control terminal there and his thoughts temporarily partitioned, the greater part of his mind submerged in the _Dis'_ command interface while his superficial awareness idly tracked his companions' talk. The warship was preoccupied with a deep recompilation sequence, checking and integrating recent modifications to the self-editing code that controlled its thousands of hardware systems and its strangely sentient cognitive core. It didn't need Cyclonus's help as such, as the primary monitoring and control of the process was being done from the warship's bridge by Galvatron, but having the recompilation watched by a second, independent set of processors was a useful failsafe.

It was pure chance that Rodimus had arrived to visit just as the _Dis_ was running a coding cycle. He was officially present in his capacity as Autobot Prime, under the terms of the Autobot-Decepticon truce that everyone on his own side was still astonished that he'd managed to negotiate with Galvatron. Those terms included the demand that the Prime spend a minimum number of days per standard month on Charr - though there was no corresponding requirement for Galvatron to spend an astrosecond longer on Cybertron than he chose to - and thus far, the young Prime had been remarkably diligent in fulfilling that particular obligation. There was a great deal of whispered speculation among the Autobots as to why Rodimus was suddenly acting with such self-sacrificing responsibility, and dark mutterings as they tried to guess exactly what Galvatron was demanding of him while he was there. Scourge suspected that the only reason the Autobots hadn't staged a mutiny over that condition of the truce was that Rodimus always went back to his own people looking happy and in one piece.

Which made it questionable, in his view, that apparently the Autobots couldn't return Rodimus to _them_ in one piece. It might be imperceptible to lesser audials, but Scourge could hear the tiny, gritty scrape of misaligned microgears every time Rodimus so much as twitched that knee and it was setting his neural nets on edge.

"It doesn't really hurt," Rodimus said, spreading his hands where he leaned back against the central rise of the bench. "I haven't gotten around to it, okay? I will do." He flicked his gaze back to the starscape above, blatantly trying to end the conversation.

Scourge frowned. It was one thing to carry unrepaired battle damage for a day or two while more important matters were dealt with, all three Unicronians did that from time to time, but there was something insidious about a _Prime_ of all people ignoring a simple maintenance issue that would probably take all of fifteen minutes to correct. The last time Rodimus had been on Charr with them had been a standard month ago, and that servo had been sticking _then_. So not only had Rodimus not had it repaired himself, nobody else had checked him over closely enough to find it and repair it for him either.

 _That_ felt wrong. A leader who didn't keep himself in the best possible condition was setting a bad example to his troops; and not only that, he was showing weakness, disrespecting his own status and rightful due. Galvatron was perfectly capable of ignoring or fighting through the most extravagant of injuries, but when he calmed down from whatever berserker fury had been driving him, he would always permit, indeed demand, that Cyclonus or Scourge fix everything that his autorepairs hadn't already handled. Galvatron took pride in his own perfection, and that included keeping the precision-engineered war machine that was his own frame in peak condition at all times.

Rodimus didn't have that kind of pride, or that pitch of self-regard. What he did have was a crew of supposedly loyal mechs who made a great deal of fuss about how caring and good and noble their race was supposed to be. Yet apparently, none of those mechs had done for him what Scourge or Cyclonus would have done for Galvatron in a sparkpulse, which was to notice a minor issue like that and offer - tactfully, respectfully, of course! - to see it resolved.

Or they had offered, and Rodimus hadn't let them. Scourge knew Rodimus well enough to wonder if that was the real truth. "Why not get around to it now?" he suggested, keeping his tone carefully light. "I could clear that for you in a few minutes, and," he gestured towards Cyclonus standing in abstraction at the far end of the observation deck, "it's not as though you'd miss anything interesting."

He wasn't wholly surprised when Rodimus tensed, indecision flickering through his fields. For a moment Scourge saw something soften in his optics, a first yielding impulse quickly hidden behind mental shutters as he looked away again. "Thanks, but y'know, you don't have to. I will get to it, I promise. No need to have you doing wrench work for me."

There was a flatness in Rodimus's tone, as though the words were the ones he felt were expected of him rather than whatever his instinctive answer would have been. Sometimes Scourge could almost hear the weight of that RV trailer and everything it symbolised just in the Chosen One's voice. "You sound like Cyclonus," he said, keeping his own voice down a little and with a slightly over-acted glance at the other Unicronian. "You don't have to do everything for yourself _all_ the time, you know."

Rodimus blinked like he was about to be offended, but Cyclonus got there faster. "I _heard_ that, Scourge," he said from his station at the control terminal, turning his head to fix the tracker with a quelling look. "What are you implying?"

Scourge stood his ground, helped by knowing that his wingmate wasn't really annoyed with him. "Just that the two of you are as bad as each other when it comes to not admitting you need something," he retorted, giving Cyclonus an answering glare that was reinforced by the certainty that he was in the right for once. "Although I don't think even you would be so stubborn as to turn down _basic repairs-_ "

"Hey!"

"-what?" The subtle alignment of energies in the air and metal around them rippled as Cyclonus disengaged from the _Dis'_ command interface. He strode across to join them, his full attention now on Rodimus and Scourge. "Rodimus?"

His tone wasn't challenging, merely questioning, but Rodimus still gave him a defensive look. "Nothing," he said. "It's no big deal. Scourge is just nagging me to get my maintenance up to date."

"Unsurprisingly, if it isn't," Cyclonus said. He sat down on Rodimus's other side, leaning in with idle grace, resting his arm across the bench's raised centre behind the span of Rodimus's spoiler - not touching him, but offering the shadow of an embrace. "What do you need?"

"I _need_ people to stop making a fuss over me," Rodimus protested. "It's nothing, okay? Just a sticky servo. I can't go around having every last little thing fixed as fast as it comes up. I'm due for a full service in another month anyway, it can _wait_."

Scourge exchanged a speaking look with Cyclonus. "It could," the warrior acknowledged. "But why should it? Scourge and I do each other's repairs all the time. Why not yours too?"

There was a taut, awkward silence, and Scourge had long enough to wonder whether he had, yet again, put his foot in his intake. At least if he had, this time he'd managed to make Cyclonus be complicit in it for once instead of frowning disapprovingly at him.

"Look," Rodimus said at last. "You don't know what it's like on Cybertron. We have _one_ core-coded medical repair tech, right now, for our whole _faction_. We're short of _everything_ and what we aren't short of, we don't have the equipment to use properly. Everyone has stuff that isn't working, code that's glitching, components that should've been replaced already if we had the facilities and the parts. It's not... it's not _fair_ if I get better care than my people, okay? I'm the Prime. I've got to set an example and right now that example has to be _hang in there and keep smiling_."

He bowed his head to stare at his fingers where they gripped together in his lap, about as far from smiling as either of the Unicronians had ever seen him. "And I feel guilty enough already, because coming here feels like I'm getting a break from all of that while my friends think I'm making some great sacrifice for them. If I go home all shiny and with everything that was wrong with me fixed? I'm going to feel like a _traitor_." He sighed. "So yeah, no offence, guys. If it was just me I'd love to let you fix me up, but it's not going to look good on my Leader-of-the-Autobots tacho card if I do."

Scourge sighed. "I take it back, you're _worse_ than Cyclonus." The warrior might make a hobby of self-denial, but at least it wasn't because he cared what anyone else thought of him. And he certainly would never turn down anything that made him more effective in his functioning, if only because that would imply refusing to give his best possible efforts in Galvatron's service. Scourge wondered briefly if an argument along similar lines might hold any weight with Rodimus.

"Do you tell your friends," Cyclonus asked, surprisingly gently, "what you do here? Do they _ask_?"

That wasn't the question Scourge had been thinking of asking, but Cyclonus was the interrogation and intel specialist of the two of them. Scourge decided to shut up and let him work, intruding only with a light touch of reassurance in his fields where they meshed at this close distance with Rodimus's.

Rodimus glanced at Cyclonus in surprise, looking relieved to be unexpectedly let off the hook of discussing his maintenance issues. "No," he said. "Not - not really. I think they try to guess. I've had a few people tell me that I don't have to do this if it," he made air quotes, one of those odd little human gestures that betrayed his bond with Earth, " _gets bad_. Telling me we were at war with the 'Cons for millions of years, I don't have to stop it all by myself if the _price is too high_." He smiled, crookedly. "I know what they mean. I just tell them it's nothing I can't handle and I'll stop if it is."

 _Nothing he couldn't handle_ was one way to put it, Scourge supposed. Then again, Rodimus's physical resilience and emotional courage had surprised all of them with the possible exception of Galvatron. Rodimus could _handle_ far more than he got credit for; and Cyclonus was nodding in understanding. "Then they have no real idea of what Galvatron, or we, might ask you for?"

"Springer pushed it once," Rodimus admitted. Scourge felt the Prime's aura ripple and shift, opening up into that familiar pattern of _conspiracy_ that meant he was enjoying sharing something with his lovers that he couldn't tell anyone else. "Kept asking what Galvatron wanted with me and what was he doing to me and then he started _guessing_." Rodimus winced at the recollection. "So I had to tell him _something_."

Cyclonus arched his superoptic ridges. "Which was?" he prompted.

"I said Galvatron wanted someone to play checkers with because you always let him win." He gave Cyclonus a cheeky grin. "Sorry. It was the first thing that came into my processors."

Scourge clamped his vocaliser on the impulse to laugh. Cyclonus snorted, but his mouth twitched in amusement. "Did that stop him asking?"

"It kinda stopped him talking to me at all for a day and a half," Rodimus admitted sheepishly. "But yeah, he hasn't brought it up since."

Cyclonus did smile at that. "Good," he said. "So in truth, your friends know nothing. Only that their sorely-needed truce depends on you coming here at Galvatron's asking, and doing whatever it is that we desire of you." His voice pitched downwards, his speech patterns slowing just a little, edging into a low, seductive growl - and Scourge _watched_ , seeing the way Rodimus's posture subtly unlocked, hearing the whisper-beat of his lasercore pulse speed up. Oh, Cyclonus was _good_ , he'd got the Prime in the hollow of his hand. "Isn't that so?"

"...yeah." There was an edge of breathlessness in Rodimus's tone and he tilted his head back against the plinth behind him. A suggestion of arousal was beginning to shimmer in his fields, rainbow-slick like oil sheening on steel, and Scourge very subtly allowed his own aura to mirror it back. If Cyclonus wanted Rodimus to go weak in his hotly-disputed knees, then Scourge was more than willing to assist. "Why-"

"And of course," Cyclonus went on smoothly, "you want to do your duty by your fellow Autobots, don't you? Even if at something of a cost to yourself?"

"Well, _yes_ , but..." Rodimus's optics were hazing over, darkened, _trusting_ even as he tried to protest. "Cyc, you're about to trick me into something, aren't you?"

Cyclonus's lips quirked, fondly, acknowledging the accusation without refuting it. "What, then," he said, "if _we_ decide that we require you in perfect condition? That scuffed paint and creaking servos are not befitting of Galvatron's favourite?" He reached out and curled his fingers under Rodimus's chin, tilting his head up, and brushed his thumb lightly over Rodimus's mouth - the Prime audibly gasped, parting his lips in instinctive surrender. "What if I _command_ , in Galvatron's name, that you submit to us for this?"

Scourge felt static prickle over his armour as Rodimus shivered, desire and acknowledgement and laughter all flaring through his fields at once. "Okay, _that_ was clever," the Prime admitted breathlessly. He turned his head, nuzzling into Cyclonus's hand. "All right, if you're putting it like that... I'd better get some new dents from Galvatron at the end of all this, though. I still don't want to go _back_ looking perfect."

Cyclonus chuckled at that. "I'll see that your... _request_ reaches Galvatron's audials," he promised. "But for now, come with us."

As Rodimus nodded, relief and affection fluttering in his aura, Scourge sent a private radio message. // _Dis?_ //

~~ _farseer?_ ~~ The warship's shadow-silk mental voice didn't sound at all distracted by the fact that most of its processing power was occupied elsewhere.

//Can we use the repair bay at the moment?//

~~ _yes_ ~~

//Thanks.// He rose to his feet and reached to offer Rodimus a hand up, and Rodimus's fingers curled around his and squeezed tight. The Prime's fields meshed with his, melting, open, _grateful_ , and Scourge gave him a quick, half-hidden smile. "All right, _Prime_. Come on."

Rodimus's aura flushed hot, but he didn't resist.

***

Say one thing for the _Dis_ , Rodimus thought, it certainly had a consistent aesthetic. He'd never been in the warship's repair bay before, but on walking through the door, it felt familiar by sheer similarity to the rest of the ship: the dark-indigo metal walls, the quiet spaciousness, the sleek, efficient layout of equipment and tech that he'd seen on the bridge, on the observation deck, in the Unicronians' berthroom. The only distinctive feature that stood out was the lighting - the same cool, slightly purple-tinged hue as everywhere else, but markedly brighter.

Which, he supposed, made sense. The repair bay was one of the few places aboard the _Dis_ where high-contrast visual acuity was likely to be important. He looked around, at the broad reinforced repair table and the array of folded manipulator arms and cables above it, the readout screens and consoles for software work, the huge shadowy secondary bay for altmode repairs partitioned off behind a translucent glass panel. Rodimus didn't know that much about the deeper mysteries of engineering, but even he could recognise that this place was designed to handle almost anything. You could probably rebuild a mech from the lasercore up with the equipment at the Unicronians' disposal.

Once again, he felt the uneasy contrast that struck him sometimes between what Unicron had clearly had in mind and what the three mechs he had come to love actually _were_. The _Dis_ by now was a second home to him. He was used to all his lovers' strengths and quirks and - whisper it - flaws. He didn't think twice any more about trusting all three of them, strange though that would have sounded to his past self; but sometimes, especially hidden in the corners of the _Dis_ , he stumbled on reminders that they had been meant to be something far worse than they were now. Unicron had built his Herald and his Herald's minions to search and destroy in the name of Darkness itself, to burn their way across the universe leaving only ashes in their wake, and the memories of that subverted fate still lingered.

There was a monstrous completism in the _Dis'_ construction. It might be half-crippled by endless fuel shortages _now_ , but it still had all the architecture and tech of a mobile battle platform capable of meeting any need of resupply or repair that its crew might ever have had. Rodimus had seen the huge, silent forges in the ship's core that could once have turned out Sweep and Armada drones as fast as Scourge and Cyclonus could toss them into the teeth of enemy fire. He'd seen the blank black cluster of screens in the one corner of the bridge that Galvatron _never_ touched or looked at, originally hardwired to stream data and commands between the _Dis_ and its maker. And somehow, looking around the clean, sleek sophistication of the repair bay was sending the same sort of prickle through his neural nets.

_Unicron made them as close to indestructible as he could. And then just in case that wasn't enough, he gave them all **this**._

He stubbornly shook the thought off. Unicron was _gone_ , and Galvatron and the others had been left as free sparks who could be reasoned with, who _did_ have emotions of their own beyond the will to destroy. No matter what implications might linger in their code and their frames and in the shadowy corners of the _Dis_ , Rodimus knew in his spark that he was never again going to face his lovers as the dead-opticked, implacable outriders of the apocalypse that their creator had meant them to be. Without that certainty, he wouldn't have been here in the first place.

Still, he was a little intimidated. "Okay, this is kinda more than I was expecting," he murmured to Scourge. "First Aid does maintenance sessions in an old bay in Iacon that we pretty much welded back together for him, and he has about a tenth as much gear as this. Even Metroplex doesn't have anything this fancy." He gestured up at the folded manipulators and cables over the repair table. "Does all of that even have an Autobot emulator setting?"

"Not as such," Cyclonus said, overhearing him. "But that doesn't matter, since we won't be hooking you up to it. That equipment is for far more substantial work than you require." He frowned slightly at Rodimus. "Unless there's anything you've been keeping from us."

"Wha- no!" Rodimus scrambled to protest. "I promise, I'm not that bad. If I need anything major, I do get it done." He relaxed a little nonetheless at the news that he wouldn't have to worry about being plugged into anything alarming. "So, uh, what _are_ you planning on doing to me?"

"Realigning that knee servo, first of all," Scourge said, with an edge of a growl in his voice. "Get on the table and stay put, Autobot."

Damn it, now even Scourge was pushing him around, not to mention pushing his buttons. He tried to suppress the pulse of guilty pleasure that shivered through his circuits at being spoken to like that, rough and commanding and blessedly absolving him of responsibility for whatever came next. "Mmh - okay, okay!"

He went, perching on the edge of the table and then swinging his feet onto it; the back tilted up to let him lean against powerful magnetic padding fields that activated to cushion his frame. He wriggled, testing the support they provided. "Wow, this is a lot more comfy than I was expecting."

"Good," Cyclonus murmured, giving him a brief smile. "Maybe that'll give you some incentive to stay there." He activated a cluster of monitoring screens beside the table. "I can't run a full diagnostic on you," he went on, "since your systems aren't compatible with the _Dis_. But we have non-contact imaging equipment, so I can at least take a look at your hardware status." He tilted his head, questioning. "If you have no objection?"

And there was the counterpoint to Scourge growling orders at him, the subtle respect that turned their rougher treatment of him into conspiracy rather than coercion, and the heat in Rodimus's capacitors blended with the warmth in his spark. "Go ahead, get it over with," he said with a crooked grin. "I've got nothing to hide."

"Good."

The subject of maintenance and repairs was a very personal one for all Cybertronians. Some mechs hated, or even feared, having anything done to their frames. Others actively enjoyed the attention or liked the performance edge they could get from a boosted service schedule, and were first in the queue whenever the repair bay had spare capacity. As Hot Rod, Rodimus had leaned towards the latter, though he'd never regarded personal tuning as a hobby the way mechs like Mirage or Tracks did. As Rodimus Prime, with a frame that still didn't quite feel like his own and the endless sense that every last thing he did would be measured against his predecessor, he simply tried to take the most responsible position he could. If he was due for a service or needed major repairs, he went, but he didn't push for attention to trivialities. First Aid always had more than enough to occupy his time without being bothered for sticky servos or leaky seals.

Apparently, nothing on his frame was trivial as far as Scourge and Cyclonus were concerned. The tracker pulled a drawer full of microtools out of the side of the bench and reached for Rodimus's damaged knee, and although Rodimus had already locked out his actuators and disabled his pain sensors there, his spark shivered and his intakes hitched when Scourge's claws touched his plating. "Hhh-"

Scourge's hand stilled. He flicked a questioning look at Rodimus. "Something wrong?"

"No... no, it's fine." He hated how he did that, sometimes - how he, who had faced all three of his now-lovers in battle without faltering, flinched _now_ when they touched him gently. _Guilt._ Guilt at wanting their attention, guilt at _getting_ it, guilt at letting himself be indulged and pleasured and treated like this when his whole faction's, his whole world's need was so much greater than his...

_I don't deserve this. I don't._

He tried not to think about it, tried to focus on watching as Scourge carefully, dexterously opened up the fairing plate that covered his knee joint and started picking at the microgears inside with a needle-fine alignment wrench. His pain sensors were inactive; the sensation of his own internals being adjusted was strange, but any potential discomfort was safely partitioned behind his maintenance protocols. It didn't _hurt_ , at any rate.

It was just... oddly intimate. Autobots, where possible, referred all servicing and repairs to a coding-designated engineer. Many, including him, had basic roadside repair skills that could keep someone functioning in an emergency; but ordinary Autobots didn't work on themselves or each other as a matter of course. Rodimus knew that the Decepticons had a different approach, referring only advanced repairs to their specialists and doing all the basics among their own fere-groups. He supposed that made sense for warbuilds, who by their nature were both less trusting than Autobots and more likely to rack up damage at inconvenient moments.

He'd just never considered how it would _feel_. Not so much the limited physical feedback from his muted sensors, but the emotional experience of watching as one of his lovers peeled back his armour and looked and reached _inside_ him. His lasercore pulse quickened, a shiver of mechadrenaline prickling in his circuits.

"Rodimus? Your tickover levels just jumped. Are you all right?"

He looked rather sheepishly at Cyclonus. "I, uh, as far as I know? This just feels..." He waved a hand, not sure how to explain. "Sorry. I don't usually get twitchy in maintenance."

"Then try not to do it now," Cyclonus said, but the subtle warmth in his fields drew the sting from the words. He moved to the side of the table and put his hand on the top of Rodimus's shoulder.

Rodimus didn't protest at the touch. A rapidly expanding share of his processing capacity was being absorbed by watching Scourge; the tracker's dark fingers were precise and careful on Rodimus's delicate internal mechanisms, exerting exactly as much force as needed and never a micromeasure more. Claws that Rodimus knew could rip through steel plate and vital circuitry, dyed energon-pink as though to prove that very point, worked gently over his gears and hooked his motive cables back into alignment, and he shivered again. "Mmh..."

"Mm?" Scourge glanced round at him.

The tracker's fields felt as soft as leadvelvet where they lapped through Rodimus's own, shadow-dark and soothing, and Rodimus was torn between his lingering uncertainties and the desire to simply melt into the attention his lovers were giving him. "Just..." He hesitated, trying to make sense of the tangle of his own feelings. "I'm not used to repairs feeling like this."

"Like what?"

Cyclonus's voice was low, calm as he so often was when Rodimus couldn't remember how to be, and as always it helped. He leaned gratefully into the warrior's hand on his shoulder, into the moonlight-silver caress of his aura. "Like... um... kind of hot?"

A blush of warmth shimmered through his fields, but neither of them laughed at him and so he went on, letting the words fall out as they came and hoping he was making sense. "I just... getting fixed up at home is really, uh, dispassionate? Autobot repair techs are supposed to be professional so that we feel safe and... I guess so we don't think about how big a deal it _is_ to let someone mess around in your internals.

"But this..." He looked at Scourge as he trailed off again. "I trust both of you so much but I'd be crazy to ever think you aren't _dangerous_ , and here I am letting you open me up and stick your claws in me and all I can think is how much I like it." The small sound that escaped him tried to be a self-depreciating laugh, but it cracked in the middle. "Is there something wrong with me?"

"No," Cyclonus replied. "Nothing whatsoever." He moved his hand to the back of Rodimus's spoiler, smoothing his palm over its sensitive aerofoil surface as he stepped in nearer to the table.

Rodimus hesitated, then reached out to wrap his arm around Cyclonus's midsection. _I'm not clinging,_ he told himself, _this is just easier if he wants to stand that close._ "You're sure?" he asked, looking up as Cyclonus bent his head down over him. His gaze caught on the strong silver line of Cyclonus's lips, and a yearning shiver fluttered through his spark. _No, be serious, Rodimus, no fooling around in the repair bay-_

"Certain," Cyclonus said with a smile, and kissed him.

"Mmh-!" That wistful little shiver became a hot, bright pulse of charge and desire that got a purr from Cyclonus, a soft laugh from Scourge and a warning beep from the _Dis'_ system monitors as his vital signs presumably did several interesting things at once. He dimmed his optics and tilted his head up, surrendering gratefully. Cyclonus kissed the same way he did most things, which was to say as though any lapse in standards would be grounds for disciplinary action, and the resultant combination of self-assurance and skill and thoroughness always sent Rodimus's emotional firewalls tumbling.

He tightened his grip on Cyclonus's flank, and made a small, muffled pleading sound as Cyclonus's glossa traced his lips. This was unexpected and decidedly kinky and he probably shouldn't like it but he _did_ , because it would take a stronger mech than him to resist Cyclonus's mouth and the deep thrum of his engines vibrating through Rodimus's frame, and the way his other hand had found its way to Rodimus's side and was teasing charge into the seams of his armour. //Cyc, please...//

//Yes,// Cyclonus murmured, not letting go of him, and it felt like the answer to every confused question he could have attempted to ask. _Yes, this is all right. Yes, you're allowed to enjoy it._

_Yes, I am doing this because I want to, not out of charity or pity._

And that was it, wasn't it, Rodimus thought. Time after time he tried to refuse the very things he wanted most, knowing that he hadn't done anything to deserve them, that he wasn't worthy of the attention and indulgence he secretly longed for. No wonder it felt so good when the three of them saw through him like this, when they co-opted his desires and bypassed his self-denial and gave him what he wanted because _they_ wanted to, without making him ask for it. Even, occasionally, before he knew he wanted it himself. He hadn't known that letting your lovers do your maintenance even _was_ a thing, let alone a thing that he _had_ , but he was now very much enlightened.

And just because Cyclonus had been smart enough to see that new code-thread working its way through his processors and step in to guide it, just because Cyclonus was teasing him and touching him and _reinforcing_ this even as he was beginning to get used to it, that didn't mean Rodimus had lost track of where Scourge was or what he was doing either. He shivered at the sweet vulnerability of feeling those needle-sharp claws deep inside him, a whimper escaping him only to be caught and devoured by Cyclonus's mouth on his. No wonder he was into this, he realised, hazily. It meant trusting his lovers, letting them in, letting them _help_ , and Primus knew _someone else figuring everything out and fixing it_ was the stuff of fantasies to an unwilling and underqualified Matrix-bearer. He reached up with his free hand to touch Cyclonus's chestplate, trying to reciprocate even some of what he was being given. It wasn't fair otherwise, he didn't _deserve_ to be spoiled like this...

"Mmm."

His efforts at least got a low murmur of pleasure from Cyclonus and prompted the warrior's glossa to nudge deeper into his mouth, and Rodimus made a small, helpless, delighted sound as shivers slid down his backstruts and charge sizzled in his hardlink array. The sudden shock of localised arousal echoed in his fields as a bright, betraying pulse of energy directly over his array panel - and prompted Cyclonus to slide his hand down Rodimus's flank and touch him _right there_ , silver-bright charge dripping through Rodimus's panel seams to spark on the plugs and ports hidden behind. Rodimus whimpered and arched his back, frame and fields alike projecting _submission, surrender, want_. //Mmh - Cyclonus, oh, please...//

//That's better,// Cyclonus told him, low and soothing.

Even that hint of praise, of _approval_ , sent a shock of emotion through him that made his engine briefly stutter and his spark tremble. He pressed himself against Cyclonus, trying to soak up more of this since apparently he was getting it whether he deserved it or not-

But he wasn't quite dazed enough to miss the half-felt _click_ as the fairing over his knee joint was closed and locked. "Ahem," Scourge said dryly. "That should be better. Check it for me?"

Cyclonus broke away from the kiss with a soft laugh, turning to look at his wingmate. Rodimus blinked, shivered as his processors resurfaced from the depths of his submission subroutines, and grinned a little sheepishly. "Sure. Uh..."

He shut down his maintenance protocols, gave his actuators and neural nets a moment to reset, and then carefully flexed his knee. The tiny, staticky scrape of microgears that he'd been making himself ignore for the last two months was gone as though it had never been, and his diagnostics returned an unruffled all-clear. The joint bent and straightened with a smooth hydraulic glide that felt positively decadent by contrast with its previous state. "Wow. Okay, yeah, I think you got it. That feels great."

"I told you so," Scourge said, and Rodimus had to allow him that. "Cyclonus, did you pick up anything else on the diagnostics that he isn't telling us about?"

"If he did, I don't know about it either," Rodimus protested; but before Cyclonus could reply, he felt a shimmer in the subtle mesh of energies woven through the ship all around them. The _Dis'_ awareness seemed to sharpen and brighten, reacting to something Rodimus hadn't yet perceived, and then the door to the corridor outside slid open.

"There you are! Cyclonus, Scourge, what are you doing with my Prime?" Galvatron strode into the bay with a smile on his lips and a gleam in his optics, looking pleased with himself and the universe at large. His tone was more playful than demanding.

"Making sure that he's being maintained to a standard worthy of you, mighty Galvatron," Cyclonus replied readily.

Both his voice and aura were so deadpan that Rodimus _almost_ wasn't sure if he was joking. Then again, hadn't that been the exact line Cyclonus had used to talk him into this to start with? Maybe he'd been more serious in the first place than Rodimus had realised.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the repair table, meaning to get up and greet his counterpart properly; but Galvatron forestalled him by coming to stand right in front of him. The Herald tilted his head with a grin, and reached out his hands.

Rodimus reached back eagerly, shivering happily as the tangible heat of Galvatron's presence washed over him. His systems, already half-charged, tingled with anticipation. Their arms slipped around each other; Galvatron stepped in closer, and Rodimus found himself at just the right height to wrap his legs around his lover's hips as he leaned in to claim a kiss.

So he did, and when the hot, sweet pleasure of Galvatron's lips capturing his wasn't interrupted by so much as a twinge from his knee servo, he briefly found the processor space to conclude that joking or not, Cyclonus had still totally had a point.


	24. On the floor - OT3+1+Dis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [OT3+1 in various combinations, for the prompt "On the floor". I headcanon the Unicronians' sleeping arrangements as being a large, shared space that's more of a floor than a berth as such, so this ended up being "a bunch of things that have happened on said floor, with a linking narrative". Full list of featured pairings: Galvatron/Cyclonus, Galvatron/Rodimus Prime, Cyclonus/Scourge, Rodimus Prime/Scourge, Scourge/ _Dis_. Warnings: established polyfidelity, pornographic home videos aka berthroom CCTV footage, voyeurism/privacy violations on a fairly wide scale (because Scourge, basically) and, uh, someone having sex with a warship. Tactile interfacing, auraplay, comms and data-connection - all consensual, rated M.]

"You know I miss all of you so slagging much, right?"

"We know."

Sitting at the console in the _Dis'_ monitoring and comms room, Scourge kept his voice low. At the other end of the connection, halfway across the galaxy, Rodimus Prime was almost whispering into the miniature comm unit mounted in his gauntlet, strain and fatigue clear on his face even in the tiny, grainy image that was all the device could transmit. "So. Much. Don't tell Galvatron."

" _Galvatron_ punched Motormaster through a wall two shifts ago because Motormaster said something smart about you not being around lately. Or maybe I should say, something very stupid about you not being around lately," Scourge said, his smile half-hidden by his moustaches. "He misses you too. We all do," he admitted gruffly.

"I know." Rodimus's expression softened, his optics darkening to sapphire warmth. "But if Galvatron finds out I'm this miserable he'll come and _get_ me, and then I'll have a whole extra major diplomatic incident to deal with on top of the triple-parked one I've already got here. So please don't tell him."

Scourge snorted, because Rodimus wasn't wrong. "Much as we all _want_ to come and get you, I take your point. Not a word."

There was a silence between them after that, as though Rodimus had taken Scourge's comment as a suggestion rather than a promise. But it was a silence filled with affection and loyalty and things that didn't need saying out loud, and Scourge had never minded silences like that.

"You know," Rodimus said at last, "you three have spoiled me so badly. Do you know what I did last off-shift?"

"What?"

"I _fell off my berth_ because I wasn't all the way awake and I forgot I was on a stupid standard recharge plinth instead of in your berthroom and I _rolled over_." A small, cracked laugh escaped him. "Apparently I've gotten that used to sleeping on the _Dis'_ floor with you."

Scourge winced. "Ouch."

"No kidding. There was nearly live fire over it because apparently Bluestreak heard the crash and thought someone was trying to assassinate me." He covered his optics briefly with his free hand. "You have no idea how embarrassed I was."

"I can guess," Scourge said, knowing Rodimus would believe him. Of his triad, Scourge was the one with something most closely approximating to a sense of shame. "You're really that used to sharing with us?" he asked, a little tentatively. It felt like _asking for reassurance_ , somehow, and he never liked being caught doing that.

"If I could wake up with you three every shift for the rest of my functioning duration and never have to recharge on a slab-and-rail berth again, I would," Rodimus told him, and there was no hesitation in his tone, only a universe of wistful longing. "Frag yes I'm used to it. Mostly because I _like_ it so much."

"You do?"

Rodimus sighed heavily, and his next words spilled out of him in a rush of whispered yearning and self-pity. "How could I not? I like falling offline with Galvatron still lying on me because I'm _his_ and he doesn't want to let me go. I like waking up to find your wing over me instead and your claws in my armour seams, and then when I look round finding Galvatron right there with his glossa halfway down Cyclonus's throat _just because_. I like how none of it ever feels awkward. I like how I always feel like you _want_ me there, all of you, whatever else is going on." He sighed again. "And yeah, being able to get comfortable without falling off the berth _and_ having at least one of you around to hold me while I'm recharging? I miss both of those things right now _a lot_."

Scourge found himself biting his lip at that, startled desire flickering hot through his core circuitry and charge tingling down his backstrut. Rodimus was usually easy to embarrass - and Scourge could entirely relate to that - but sometimes the Prime had bursts of sudden honesty, blurting out what he felt or wanted without even thinking about how it sounded or what effect it was going to have on his lovers... He gripped the edge of the console, claws scratching on the _Dis'_ dark metal, the sensory feedback combining vividly with the mental images Rodimus had just thrown at him. "I hear you," he said, sparkfelt and trying to clear the raggedness out of his voice with a static cough as he rebooted his vocaliser. "And trust me we'd all want you here even _more_ if the other two overheard you saying things like _that_." The reboot hadn't done much to help the way his voice was trembling.

Rodimus managed a grin, dropped his gaze. "Sorry. Did I push a button there?"

Damn him, he knew perfectly well that he had. Rodimus and Scourge had something of a private conspiracy going on within the greater compass of Rodimus's bond with the Unicronians, and one result of it was that Rodimus could read Scourge as well as his wingmates could - if not, occasionally, better. They _knew_ each other. "You might've."

A soft splutter of amusement from Rodimus, muffled as though he was worried about being overheard. He probably was, on board an Autobot diplomatic ship in territory that was only a wiresbreadth away from open hostility to the entire Cybertronian race. "Sorry. Or, uh, should that be _you're welcome_?"

Scourge made a noncommittal noise of the sort that always prompted Cyclonus to raise a superoptic ridge at him. "Stop talking, Autobot."

Rodimus choked very quietly on laughter at that. "I love you too," he murmured, the light in his optics dancing brighter than it had since he'd opened his comm line. "Thanks, Scourge. Look after yourself, huh? I'll be back as soon as I can."

"If you're out there much longer I _am_ telling Galvatron what you told me."

Rodimus winced and grinned. "I trust your discretion," was all he said. "Goodnight, Scourge."

"Take care."

The connection dropped as Rodimus closed his comm. Scourge slumped in his chair, his left hand still pressed to the console's touchpad, and let out a long sigh through all his vents at once. Heat swirled briefly in the air around him, rippling on his subdermal sensors. _Damn it._

~~ _???_ ~~

The questioning touch against his thoughts was cool and dark and vast, the _Dis_ turning its shadowy sentience to nudge carefully at him. Scourge shuttered his optics and primary sensors and shifted his consciousness deeper into the command interface, into the glowing wireframe terrascape that was the _Dis'_ mental rendering of its own code and file systems. //What?//

~~ _something is wrong?_ ~~

He sent back a mental image. Three bright points of light, gold and silver and midnight blue, wrapped together in a coil of violet-edged darkness; a fourth, flame-red, glowing far away and faint in the distance. He felt an answering echo of wordless understanding, and watched as the _Dis_ in turn manipulated the image, sending the three grouped lights and their escorting shadow moving inexorably towards the fourth.

~~ _intervene?_ ~~

Scourge sighed. //No. We wouldn't be any help and he won't thank us if we make things worse.// Back in physical reality he stroked the touchpad, claws curling to scratch gently on its obsidian surface. //I wish I could think of a better idea.//

Microcurrent tingled through his claw-tips: the ship's tactile systems responding to his touch, exchanging tiny scraps of subconscious code between them. His fingers twitched at the familiar strangeness of the sensation. ~~ _the chosen one misses you_ ~~

//He misses all of us,// Scourge said. //Including you, apparently.//

There was a wordless flicker of warmth through the link as the _Dis_ processed that. The Unicronians' flagship wasn't exactly demonstrative, and it certainly never seemed as though it had _wants_ as such beyond occasional laconic statements of its current fuel and materiel requirements; but it definitely had _feelings_ , in its own fashion, and Scourge could tell that it was pleased at the idea of Rodimus thinking fondly of it. ~~ _???_ ~~

//You were listening, weren't you? That was _your_ recharge floor he was talking about.// He stroked the touchpad again, haematite-dark silver light shimmering under his claws. //He meant you too.//

A ripple of acknowledgment through the command interface, the wireframe briefly dappling in purple and blue. He could feel the ship _thinking_ , in that abyssal, vertiginous way that it did; running data through a distributed processor network separated by literal miles of fibre-optic cables and platinum-core wire, contemplating his words with its whole huge frame. He waited. The _Dis_ was lightning-quick in flight and battle, but it never paid to hurry it about anything else.

Eventually it reached out to him over the link, and surprised him by sending a thread of code to tug on the lingering arousal that was still running in his processors from Rodimus's earlier unguarded words. He startled, the sudden flutter of induced charge in his core systems catching him off guard. //What?//

A file storage node was shunted through the datascape, a glowing blue tesseract that came to rest floating before him. He reached up and hooked in to access it, accepting that this was the answer he was getting.

The _Dis_ brushed encouragement against his awareness as the tesseract unfurled around him, into a vast series of stacked, glowing virtual wafers that each represented a file stored in the node. Awash in petabytes of data, hanging above the _Dis'_ inner mindscape with a vantage point that verged on omniscience, he reached curiously to examine the nearest files, and-

_Oh._

All the Unicronians were equally bonded to the _Dis_ , equally at home in its virtual inner world, but it showed different facets of itself to each of them. With Galvatron the ship shared the instincts of a living weapon and the ecstasy of battle, the will to power and the lust to destroy. To Cyclonus, it mirrored back his sense of duty, his love of flight and speed, and the cherished knowledge of what it meant to be _Galvatron's warship_.

And with Scourge, its common ground was secrets, knowledge, information. Scourge was the Tracker, capable of seeing halfway across the galaxy at range or through a solid steel wall right in front of his face, built to handle a constant, unrelenting influx of _knowing_ that would drive a normal mech to madness. By himself he was formidable enough - with the _Dis_ as a relay for his perceptions and a storehouse for all the data he accumulated, he was ten times more so. Once he was hooked in to the ship's mainframe, with all its myriad of sensors, conning towers and scanners unlocked for him to look through at will and its processing power augmenting his, there was little in the galaxy that could hope to escape their combined reach.

But the files the _Dis_ had found for him now were nothing especially far-fetched. They were simple surveillance footage from its internal security cams, of which there were hundreds scattered through every room and corridor in its vast hull. Nothing went unseen or unrecorded aboard the _Dis_ ; but its loyalty to its rightful crew was beyond any question. Their secrets were arguably safer in its databanks than in their own.

Which, Scourge thought as he looked at the files it had selected, was just as well. This was all footage from the cameras in their berthroom, that very room Rodimus had spoken of with such longing; but the date sequence wasn't complete, so it wasn't simply a complete transcript of those cameras. The _Dis_ had selected specific clips. More curious than ever, Scourge pulled one of the files at random, looked into it-

_In silver-edged darkness Cyclonus sprawls on his back, tangled in leadvelvet thermal blankets that rub heat and teasing softness against his armour and his outstretched, taut-strained wings, pinned in place by Galvatron's hand pressed across his chestplate. His optics are darkened and half-shuttered, his lips parted desperately as he writhes against his lord's touch. The heavy, ragged stutter of his overheated engines mingles with his moans and broken pleas, with Galvatron's delighted laughter._

_In seemingly perfect control of himself, Galvatron leans over his lieutenant, propping himself on his elbow while he holds Cyclonus down with his other hand. He bends his head, starlight shimmering on the points of his crown like jewels; he glances a half-kiss across Cyclonus's mouth, his glossa a silver dart flickering out to tease for the briefest moment between those pleading lips before he pulls away._

_Cyclonus shudders, craning his neck, his own glossa extended in supplication. The sound that escapes him, caught by the surveillance audio, is close to a sob. "Ah! Galvatron, please, my lord..."_

_For all his seeming distress, his aura blazes desire, devotion, joy. He keens in need when Galvatron, still laughing, licks his mouth and bites the tip of his glossa and ghosts their parted lips over each other; he reaches up and his hand finds the barrel of Galvatron's cannon, clinging there and caressing urgently over bright-hot metal. Galvatron arches his back at the touch, lifting his head with imperious pride, optics flaring crimson and his dentae bared in a growl of pleasure-_

Scourge snapped out of the datastream with a gasp, blinking in both real and virtual space as his charge distribution systems cut in to compensate for the sudden uptick of his engines in the frame he was currently not entirely occupying. The images still burned hot in his metaprocessor, making him bite his lip and squirm in his chair - he didn't remember seeing _that_ when it had happened, although it was nothing out of the ordinary for Cyclonus and Galvatron in a moment of shared downtime. His attention must have been elsewhere, dealing with some minor crisis on Charr while he had the watch command, or distracted by something in some other quadrant of the galaxy entirely.

But the _Dis_ missed nothing, and forgot nothing, and there was nothing it wouldn't tell the tracker if he asked. Or apparently in this case even if he hadn't. //What was that about?// he demanded, the words ragged as his arousal slipped through into his radio voice.

He could feel the ship's shadowy approval at his reaction. ~~ _for loneliness?_ ~~ it suggested. It sent an accompanying image, a twist on the one he had sent before. Two sparks of midnight-blue and flame-bright light - far apart, but with a silver thread stretched between them - and the icon-symbol for a file transfer in progress.

Scourge blinked again. And brought his free hand up to cover his mouth, grinning behind it and his moustaches. //You're suggesting I send these to _Rodimus?_ //

~~ _the chosen one misses us_ ~~ the _Dis_ said simply, regretfully. ~~ _remind him?_ ~~

//You know, that might be an idea.// Scourge turned his full attention back into the datascape, into the tesseract archive. //Something for him to think about until he gets back?//

It made sense, certainly to him. He copied that file into a temporary archive and scanned the rest of the collection, wondering what else was in there that would be of most interest to Rodimus - and realised that at least some of these clips would have Rodimus _in_ them. Perhaps a few of those would be appropriate. He picked out one with a datestamp from when he knew Rodimus had been on Charr with them, and opened it up to see-

_Rodimus Prime lies still, turned half onto his face with his helm pillowed on his left arm. Galvatron settles onto the floor behind him and moves over him, swinging one leg to straddle his pelvic section, sleek thighs bracketing the Prime's trim-sculpted hips._

_He leans down, pressing his mouth to the trailing edge of Rodimus's spoiler. Rodimus startles and arches up and bends his head, baring the back of his neck in submission, and the cry that escapes him is soft, sweet, breaking with surprise and pleasure. Galvatron breathes a laugh at his response; the sound merges into a purr of hungry appreciation._

_He mouths at Rodimus's spoiler and then bites, the crack of metal yielding under his dentae sharply clear in the quiet. Rodimus moans, pressing up eagerly into the frame so effortlessly subduing his, and the camera's EM filters shimmer with the pulse of heat and want and relief that floods through his aura. The Prime is not at all unwilling, it seems, to be courted so roughly._

_Galvatron's fields echo with desire and satisfaction and predatory instinct. He reaches his right hand and his great cannon around Rodimus's chest to pull him close, pressing his palm over the gaze of the scarlet mask painted on the Prime's breastplate. Rodimus melts against him with another breathless cry, his optics darkening from azure to sapphire, gasping as his tensor cables go tight and his head tips up-_

...well, _that_ file would have Rodimus cursing Scourge's name and thanking him in the same breath, he thought fondly as he added it to the archive folder. //And he wonders what Galvatron sees in him,// he muttered, half to the Dis and half to himself.

He wouldn't quite describe the subverbal pulse of emotion he got back as a _laugh_ , but it was definitely an agreement. Scourge shook his head, amused. He continued browsing the files, picking ones here and there for the archive; the _Dis_ had already preselected what it thought might be appropriate, but Scourge was only going to send a dozen or so. Providing Rodimus with something to comfort him - or make him miss them - was one thing, but distracting him _too_ much might not be welcome. Certainly not when he was in such a potentially dangerous situation...

As that thought passed through his mind, the _Dis_ flicked a process-interrupt code to him, followed by a file. Scourge blinked. //Hmm?//

_Scourge and Cyclonus, both carrying the dents and scrapes and black laser-scars of recent battle, lie collapsed across the floor together. Cyclonus is on his back, his shoulders propped against the wall; Scourge is draped on top of him, his wings half-concealing both their frames. Their legs are tangled and twined together, Cyclonus's knee drawn up and his boot hooked over the back of the thigh that Scourge is pressing against his pelvic strip. Cyclonus has his arm stretched through the cutaway of Scourge's left wing, reaching down to rub at the wing-base where it joins Scourge's back armour._

_Scourge tilts his head up with a gasp and leans in, needy and unsteady, to kiss his triadmate. Cyclonus's face is grim, set taut with what's almost certainly pain by the look of his wings, but his optics soften as their mouths meet and he lets slip a low sound that holds more of relief than pleasure. Scourge whimpers into his mouth, sounding equally relieved, and works a hand free from somewhere beneath his own wing to reach up and clutch at Cyclonus's shoulder._

_The camera is fixed - the perspective of the image can't be moved or changed. And yet somehow the footage still feels as though it lingers almost tenderly on the two wounded, exhausted fighters as they kiss and kiss again, fingertips tracing the curves of each other's helms and the dented edges of wings, both too tired and sore to do more than wrap their frames and fields around each other like this..._

Scourge remembered that day all too clearly. It had been a very, very long one. Phantom aches throbbed in his sensornets at the memories even now, mingling with the sweeter, tingling recollection of Cyclonus's caresses on his wounds, his lips, his wings... // _This_ one?// he asked the _Dis_ doubtfully. It seemed a less than obvious choice for an erotic archive.

Certainty echoed back to him through the mainframe link and the circuit-contact at his fingertips, the _Dis_ sure of its reasoning. ~~ _if he has to fight..._ ~~

...at _best_ , Rodimus was going to come back from his current mission exhausted and miserable. If it went wrong, if he and his people found themselves in battle, he'd likely come back wounded and racked with self-loathing for what he would see as his own failure whether they won or lost. So, Scourge realised, the purpose of including that clip was obvious after all. Rodimus always worried too much about meeting what he imagined to be their standards - which Scourge supposed was understandable given Galvatron's legendary temper, but even then, Rodimus didn't tend to make the _kinds_ of mistakes that lit Galvatron's touchpaper. Turning up dented in the aftermath of a battle gone badly certainly wouldn't diminish him in any of their optics. //Point taken,// Scourge said, and shunted the file to his archive with the others.

That was probably close to being enough. He looked up and down the glowing towers of files one more time, scanning their timestamps and correlating his own memory banks to them just in case anything flagged up as obviously pertinent-

-wait. Was that the file he thought it was?

He dropped down the filestacks, manoeuvring his Cartesian point in the datascape as intuitively as he would manage his own frame on its antigravs and thrusters, and reached for one of the glowing virtual wafers. It looked exactly the same as all the others - of course it did - but when he opened it...

_The Dis is hanging somewhere in space - not Charr, the silver light pouring through the armourglass roof of the berthroom is too bright by far for that. On one side of the wide floor, in a pile of padding blocks and thermal blankets, Galvatron is lounging comfortably, his offlined optics the deep glassy black of recharge mode. Cyclonus is curled at his lord's side, lying half on his chest with his arm wrapped tightly around Galvatron's midsection, and Galvatron's arm - and cannon - are draped over his back, a perfect tableau of possessive pride and devoted loyalty..._

_They aren't the only occupants of the berth. Some distance away across the floor is Scourge, stretched on his ventrals with his wings trailing out wide, his arm folded under his head, his optics still dimly alight. And beside him is Rodimus, his paint standing out bright in contrast against the blended darker colours around him, seemingly wide awake._

_He shifts closer to Scourge, who looks around at him with optics flickering brighter. "Go to sleep, Prime," the tracker says, with a growl in his voice that isn't really sparkfelt at all._

_"I can't," Rodimus protests, equally quietly._

_Scourge snorts. "Why not?"_

_"Because I got too charged up from_ that _," Rodimus explains in an intensely reasonable whisper. He grins, quick and bright and mischievous - more Hot Rod than Rodimus Prime - and reaches out to wrap his hand over Scourge's wrist. "Wanna make out with me?"_

_There's a quiet clink of metal as Scourge sighs and the slats of his vent plates rattle lightly. "I was trying to recharge," he mutters, but he's smiling as he pushes himself up on his elbow and then to his knees, turning to his friend. "Come here."_

_Rodimus scrambles to follow suit and shuffles through the blankets until they can both reach to slip their arms around each other. The Prime's optics dim when he's pulled in close, and he tips his head back happily as he arches against Scourge's embrace. "Oh, yeah."_

_He's left his throat bared by the movement. Scourge goes straight for that exposed stretch of soft silver flexmetal, darting the whiplike length of his glossa out to tease at it. Tiny sparks jump across the unstable contact between them, and the quiet but quickening purr of Rodimus's engine catches sharply. "Scourge-"_

_"Quiet," Scourge warns._

_But his own engines are spinning up, too. He bends his head closer, licking greedily at Rodimus's throat and down under the edge of his collar plating, and Rodimus shudders against him with a high, hitched little gasp of pleasure. "Hhh! Oh, yeah, like that, please... right there, oh, Scourge..."_

In the safety of the _Dis'_ monitor room, Scourge bit his lip, groaning quietly as his own memories of that particular off-shift flooded back. Rodimus had been so eager, running hot with desire as he pressed himself against Scourge, and he'd tasted of clean oil and bright metal and his plating had been almost fizzing with charge beneath Scourge's glossa. The tracker's clawed hand slid up his own thigh, barely noticed, as in the datascape he continued to watch...

_Scourge nuzzles in closer, licking and nipping at Rodimus's throat and the edge of his collar. Rodimus moans, tries to swallow the sound, and rocks against Scourge with a muted creak and slide of metal. He's panting as his head tips further back, but despite his visible daze of pleasure, he has the presence of mind to slide his hands down Scourge's flanks and onto the armour that covers his hip joints._

_Scourge presses greedily into Rodimus's touch, and the audio catches the low moan that he lets slip. Static shimmers on the Prime's fingertips, Rodimus channelling his charge over the thrusters mounted on the sides of Scourge's pelvic section; Scourge gasps and his claws tighten on Rodimus's back. "Mmh... don't stop doing that...!"_

_His voice is a whisper, muffled against Rodimus's collar, but the Prime grins raggedly in triumph. "I won't," he promises._

_And he doesn't, his fingertips tracing the sharp edges of the thruster collars, running charge into the myriad of small seams around them. Scourge shudders and rocks against him and presses their frames together. His claws scratch at Rodimus's back armour, until Rodimus gasps, "Scourge-"_

_"Hhh - what?"_

_"Just - your claws feel so good." He squirms. "Please, more..."_

In the _Dis'_ dataspace, Scourge groaned at the echo-pulse of arousal through his circuits. In the moment Rodimus had first spoken them, those words had live-wired his spinal strut and sent electrostatic shivers thrilling all the way to the tips of his wings; hearing them played back was almost as arousing now as it had been then. His frame tingled all over; his claws curled, scratching on the inner curve of his thigh...

_"Anywhere in particular?" Scourge asks, his voice ragged. His hands slide down over Rodimus's flanks, grazing the upper edge of his pelvic module, metal singing on metal._

_"Spoiler," Rodimus pants. "Please." He lets his knee joints fold down, flattening his thighs against the backs of his boots to bring his shoulders and back into easier reach. Scourge eagerly moves to kneel astride his thighs, for once letting him look down at Rodimus; standing, the Prime is taller than he is, but not now. He bends his head with a low growl and Rodimus gasps and tips his face up to meet him, lips parting eagerly for Scourge to claim them._

_Which Scourge does, silencing Rodimus with a deep, rough kiss before reaching around to press a double handful of needle points into the back of Rodimus's spoiler. Rodimus whimpers, tenses, arches his back - and then shudders as Scourge draws them down, carving silver lines into bright paint. "Mmmmmh!"_

_"You like that, Autobot?" Scourge growls._

_He's playing up to cliche, just a little; but Rodimus's aura floods with heat and charge in response, so intense that the camera's autofilters briefly darken. "Stars yes," he gasps, arching back and pushing his hips up against Scourge's weight. "Primus, I'm going to feel that for hours..."_

_"Want some more?"_

_"Mmh, please." He stretches up and nuzzles Scourge's audial. "C'mon, show me what you got," he coaxes, eager. "Please, Scourge..."_

_And Scourge does, claws cutting in slow and sure, and Rodimus clings to him with another rapturous moan. He slips his hands under the lower edges of Scourge's wings and reaches around to his back, and Scourge abruptly gasps as Rodimus's fingers explore the baseplates and anchor points of his wings. "Is this okay?" the Prime queries softly._

Rodimus's moments of insecurity might be frustrating to some; but never to Scourge, and certainly never in the berth. They made too good an excuse for him to admit things for once, to ask for what he wanted under the guise of encouraging Rodimus. Saying _I like that_ without an excuse felt like vulnerability; saying it because Rodimus needed the encouragement felt much safer. Pleasure-echoes pulsed in his circuitry, anticipation tingling between his wings as he tracked his own sense-memories against the images...

_"Definitely," his past self whispers, pressing back into Rodimus's touch. "Don't stop."_

_"Here?" Rodimus asks, looking up with optics bright._

_The camera angle doesn't clearly show what he's doing, but Scourge moans and his claws dig into Rodimus's spoiler again, this time with less self-control than before. "Not complaining," he concedes raggedly, and then "oh, that's it, there..."_

_Rodimus's grin is bright in the silver shadows, delighted. "Okay," he whispers, and his hands keep moving and Scourge arches back and flexes his wings wide with a shivering ring of metal. The camera's EM detectors pick up the halo of building charge surrounding both of them as their auras brighten, ionised static dappling over the image..._

He knew exactly what Rodimus had been doing. Hidden beneath the armour on Scourge's back, between his wings' baseplates, was a tiny sensor cluster that for some reason seemed to be hotwired straight to his pleasure centres. And Rodimus _knew_ about it, just as Galvatron and Cyclonus did, and he knew that if he slipped his fingers in there and pumped even a trace of charge into those sensors he could make Scourge do anything he damn well wanted.

In the physical world, in the frame that he was still dimly aware of as it tensed in the console chair with engines racing, that sensor cluster _ached_. There was nothing he could do about it other than squirm with arousal and dig his claws into his thigh again - the whole of his back and most of his wing surfaces were acnestic, the geometry of his frame making it impossible for him to get his own hands to them - but it was torture to feel those sensors pulse without any hope of relief.

Except that abruptly he _did_ feel something touching him. He gasped, arched, pressed back against his seat. //What the - _Dis_?!//

The ship's awareness caressed his, silken, shadowy, uncompromising in its devotion. It seemed unperturbed by his surprise. ~~ _you wanted_ ~~ it murmured.

It was a trick, of sorts. There was nothing there - that touch was the _Dis_ using the data connection between them to send carefully-measured false positives to his sensornets and their associated processors, creating the illusory but vivid impression of _something_ that slid down his backstrut and then lower, into that secret sweet spot, pressing hard into his rogue sensors and sending pleasure and charge licking hot through his core. //Thanks,// he panted - because yes, he _had_ wanted, and he'd gladly take the _Dis'_ neurotrickery as an option if the ship was offering. //Ohh...//

~~ _affection_ ~~ The transmission was pure, wordless emotion.

There was no way that Scourge could offer the _Dis_ much in return, at least physically. A warship's systems were fundamentally unlike a mech's; the _Dis'_ sensory peripherals connected to its processors via wholly different protocols and hardware than his. A three-mile-long hull that was constantly exposed to vacuum, hard radiation, micrometeorite impacts and enemy fire couldn't afford the luxury of erogenous zones. The closest the _Dis_ had to direct-contact pleasure sensors were the touchpads built into its consoles, and those, compared to its size, were tiny.

Scourge still curled his claws against the one under his hand, and felt the pulse of charge and light that answered his touch. The _Dis_ definitely got _something_ from the contact and the sub-gestalt neural merge through the command interface, and Scourge had no objection whatsoever to sharing. _Affection,_ he sent back as a wordless pulse over the link and a shimmer in his rapidly-heating fields, and the _Dis_ settled the vast shadowy weight of itself comfortably against his thoughts and tugged him encouragingly back into the datastream...

_Scourge leans down and kisses Rodimus again, but this time it's more to silence himself than the Prime as he groans against Rodimus's mouth. Hands slide urgently over heated metal, sparks of stray charge snap from bright armour to dark and back as their auras merge in a haze of static and pleasure. Scourge breaks the kiss and tips his head back; Rodimus nuzzles into his throat, pressing his face between the high sideplates of Scourge's collar. Scourge's optics dim almost to black and then flare bright, briefly flooding the shadows around them with hot crimson light. "Nnnh-!"_

The camera couldn't see it but Rodimus had been licking him, threading his glossa into the seal where the flexmetal of Scourge's throat ran behind the heavy armour of his chestplate. His brought his free hand up and hooked his claws into his collar, chasing the memory of the touch; of flexmetal hissing soft and sleek against flexmetal, the agile flicker of Rodimus's glossa-tip pushing just under the edge of the thick silicon-polymer seal. _Violation_ , subtle and sweet - as it always was and would always have to be, because Unicron didn't give them any other way to let someone else _in_.

_"We should stop," Rodimus gasps as he pulls back, his optics glowing hectically bright. "Scourge-"_

_"Why?"_

_"Because if either of us overloads we're going to wake Galvatron and Cyclonus and I don't know about you but I'm way too close." He shakes his head to clear it, panting on the ragged edge of laughter. "Wasn't this just supposed to be a makeout?"_

_"You tell me, you started it." Their lips hover dangerously close to each other. Their auras merge in a slick of charge and overlapping field lines, greedy for each other without regard for consequences._

_"Yeah, but I forgot how good you are at this." He tilts his head up and nuzzles against Scourge, breathless with laughter and lust. "Seriously..."_

_Scourge grips him tighter at that, charge shimmering like blue water across the insides of his wings. Their mouths meet again for a lingering moment and then Rodimus pulls away. "No, really," he says, with a sheepish smile._

_"All right," Scourge agrees. He slides off Rodimus's lap and lets himself fall into the padding beneath them, sprawling on his back._

_Rodimus reaches over and briefly wraps his hand around one of the thick copper-alloy earth bars that run in recesses around the berthroom's walls, his frame sagging a little in relief as his excess charge drains out of his systems. He looks questioningly at Scourge. "Aren't you going to-?"_

_"Not me," Scourge says. "I'll use it up somewhere." He holds out his hand to Rodimus._

_"Okay." Rodimus moves to rejoin him, dragging a huge leadvelvet thermal blanket to tug over both of them as he settles into Scourge's arms, curled half on top of the tracker's chest. Scourge pulls him close with a soft, wordless growl, optics dimming..._

Scourge groaned quietly, the tightness in his capacitors echoing the memories of that night. Rodimus hadn't been wrong at the time about it being a good idea to stop, and it had been Scourge's own choice to hold his charge instead of draining it through the _Dis'_ earth bars as Rodimus had done. He never liked to dump charge for the sake of it - the Unicronians went hungry too often for him to be willing to waste power - but _stars and void_ he'd been squirming inside his plating as Rodimus had snuggled up to him and dropped innocently into recharge in his arms.

Which meant that closing that file and copying it across to the archive he was assembling felt like a certain kind of sweet revenge. Let Rodimus watch that clip back and get charged up and desperate all over again. //Maybe this time he won't cheat his way out of it,// he muttered to the _Dis_ , but there was a smile hidden behind his moustaches as he sealed the archive, locked it with one of their private encrypts, and sent it to Rodimus's comm to be picked up whenever he checked it next. _There._

The ship's response filtered back to him in the datascape, a ripple of soundless shadow-laughter. ~~ _???_ ~~ it prompted him, with a nudge at his sensornets over the link, and he could feel what it was hinting at: _what about you, now?_ A ghostly wash of heat rippled over the backs of his wings, something that felt like teasing fingertips traced the scars his own claws had scratched into his thigh, and Scourge arched his back with a soft groan. The ship might not be able to experience pleasure in the ways its crew did, but it took a close and loyal interest in how their systems worked. If he wanted it, he knew the _Dis_ would be perfectly willing and able to go on, to tease and play with his neural nets for as long as he desired.

He'd never been good at resisting temptation.

//All right,// he whispered, and allowed his frame to slide further down in the console chair, his head to tilt back and his optics to dim.

And the _Dis_ settled protectively around him, the wireframe glow of the datascape darkening to a secretive, twining thing of black and deep blue and tiny, teasing threads of silver that worked their way into his processors as the ship pulled his consciousness deeper into the great dark folds of its own. ~~ _here_ ~~ it urged, ~~ _with me_ ~~

He shivered at feeling himself so deeply _known_ , even as he knew the _Dis_ would never use that knowledge against him. The _Dis_ understood that what let him feel safe, what let him feel _powerful_ , was to see everything while being invisible himself, to know others' secrets while keeping his own; and so it secured the monitor room and shuttered it against all observation, while in the virtual space of the command interface it created shadows for him to hide in and walls of obsidian-black encryption like a maze that only he, Unicron's tracker whose optics saw through reality itself, could ever hope to navigate. It curled itself close, concealing, conspiring, whispering wordlessly to his spark: _Here you are all-powerful, farseer. I have no secrets from you, and between us the galaxy has no secrets at all._

That promise sent heat and charge rippling down his backstrut to pool in the capacitor banks low in his midsection. His fingers curled and clenched, one hand's talons digging into the arm of his chair, the other's skidding and scratching on the touchpad. The dark glass didn't break or even mark - the _Dis_ was forged to withstand its own crew's weaponry - but the microcircuits beneath it pulsed with light, adding their charge to the rush of pressure-feedback Scourge was already receiving through his fingertip sensors. The pleasure was all the more exquisite for being so excruciatingly precise, a needle-silver bolt through his awareness that had him arching his back and moaning out loud. " _Dis-!_ "

The _Dis'_ mental response was a wordless purr, a half-sound put together from the thrum of vast engines and the radio-hiss of stellar wind over its armoured skin. Projected images flickered in a palimpsest over the obsidian walls of code within which it was shielding him - too many and too fast for any processors but his to make sense of, a billion shards of memories and data gathered by the _Dis'_ own sensors, from the Sweeps, from Scourge himself. Snapshots, words, familiar faces, skein-patterns of energy that would have been invisible to anyone limited by common perceptual registers; some of it overtly, pointedly erotic, but some of it simply _secrets_ , things worth knowing purely because others had sought to conceal them. _Knowledge is power..._

And even as he was caught up in the rush of the data-high and the thrill of having _so much_ at his fingertips, the _Dis_ was still sensor-hacking him over the link. Heat rippled across the surfaces of his wings, everywhere at once, the illusion of a touch that no physical hand could replicate. As he tilted his head up with his lips desperately parting, something shimmer-soft and sparking with power coiled ethereally around his throat and then reared up to trace his mouth in a tingling brush of silver-dark charge. He moaned loudly enough to shame himself; the black encryption-code around him soaked up the sound, just as in the physical world it was currently soundproofing the monitor room's walls. _His_ secrets were safe here, even as everyone else's were betrayed.

~~ _shh_ ~~ the _Dis_ whispered to him, as it pressed ghost fingertips into all his frame's sweet spots at once, and Scourge overloaded with a shuddering gasp of release. His charge snapped loose, earthing to the console and the walls around him, feeding back through the touchpad in a spike of wild voltage that the _Dis'_ reinforced systems caught and drank in without leaving a trace; and he slumped in his seat with a groan, wings quivering, unceremoniously dumped back in his own frame by the cascade reset of his processors.

Given the lingering ripples of pleasure that were still flowing and settling through his circuits, it wasn't at all an unpleasant place to land despite the abrupt transfer of consciousness. He pressed his fingers to the touchpad, and blue light flickered in its depths as the contact-circuit between him and the _Dis_ reset and stabilised. " _Mmh._ "

~~ _welcome_ ~~ the _Dis_ murmured, its presence draped around him like black velvet, tugging him close as though to protect him. And then: ~~ _transmission completed_ ~~

"Huh?" He blinked at the main comm board on the console, and saw that while he was busy rebooting his systems, the green _transmitted_ light marking their file-message to Rodimus had flashed to blue for _read_.

In that case, he thought as he and the _Dis_ looked on in shared satisfaction at a job well done, he certainly wasn't getting out of this chair yet. There was no way he wanted to miss it when Rodimus inevitably called him back.


	25. Rough sex - Galvatron/Cyclonus (PLEASE READ WARNINGS)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galvatron/Cyclonus, for the prompt "Rough sex". This is a short one, but the idea smacked me in the head and I had to write it. WARNINGS: hurt/comfort, aggressively violent sex, loyalty, duty and power dynamics, and a character being severely emotionally triggered and acting violently in response. Consensual but arguably neither sane nor safe; tactile interfacing, rated M. (As for what happened before the fic starts, as it were: in my mind, this scene is the consequence of someone leading Galvatron to believe that he's been betrayed/doublecrossed by Rodimus Prime. Take that as part of the warnings if you will.)

" _Cyclonus!_ "

Galvatron's voice is stripped raw with pain and fury, harsh with violent command. Cyclonus does not flinch. "Here, my lord."

" _Cyclonus._ " He is seized, flung into the wall with a crash that shakes his struts. Galvatron pins him by his throat, pushing his own weight against Cyclonus's frame, and his aura feels like razor tape and barbed wire threaded under Cyclonus's plating. " _You_ are loyal to me, are you not?!"

"Yes, mighty Galvatron." His hands seek out Galvatron's hip and flank, clinging to his lord, pulling him in. It hurts, but he swallows the pain without hesitation. "Always, my lord. What would you have me do?"

Galvatron makes a wordless, wounded noise and kisses him, still holding his throat in a crushing grip, his other hand forcing Cyclonus's wing back against the wall. Cyclonus chokes but opens his mouth and tilts his head, moaning as he is taken. Galvatron's fields tear into his, filled with rage and wounded pride and bitter hurt; Galvatron's hands move over his frame, rough fingers forced into seams and sweet spots to fill him with charge that feels like a flood of cutting blades.

It hurts. It hurts and he takes all of it, even as Galvatron grips his throat and bites at his mouth and makes sounds that from anyone else Cyclonus might call sobs. He takes his lord's pain so that Galvatron can let it go, pulling all of it into his own frame and sending back nothing but loyalty and trust and a thousand times _love_. _Galvatron, oh, Galvatron, my lord...!_

He can't hold on forever. Galvatron's charge may feel like plasma fire and razors inside him but it is still charge and his aching capacitors are rapidly filling with it. He overloads with a cry of pain; Galvatron growls against his mouth, lightning cascading between them as the Herald snatches back what he has so briefly bestowed. Cyclonus returns it with all his spark, pouring his spilled charge into his lord's armour seams laced with his willing pain and devotion, all the gratitude he feels for Galvatron's very existence. " _Ah!_ Galvatron, Galvatron, please, my lord, please...!"

When Galvatron overloads in turn it's with a bitter snarl, and Cyclonus feels it like glass smashed in his face. There is no sweet rush of satisfied pride and triumph, only the nova burst of pain and anger looking for an outlet, the hiss and burn of a safety valve blown open without resolving the fault behind it. Galvatron shudders in his lieutenant's arms, his charge snapping out in a whiplash storm that makes Cyclonus gasp with pain. " _Nnh!_ Cyclonus-!"

Cyclonus holds him, desperately, willing to do whatever his lord may ask. "Here, mighty Galvatron," he whispers, still caressing adoration into Galvatron's frame with every touch. "Here, my lord... command me..."

"Cyclonus." Galvatron grapples him into a strut-buckling embrace, clutching him ferociously. " _My_ Cyclonus... _you_ would never betray me. Would you?!"

"Never, mighty Galvatron." He does not resist the pain, letting his frame absorb it. Any damage he suffers is immaterial when his lord has such need of him. "I am yours, I desire nothing else." He tilts his head up, daring to press soft kisses against Galvatron's jaw and the corner of his mouth.

Galvatron growls, but doesn't refuse the touch. "If you ever dare-!" he threatens, but trails off, unable to voice the enormity of what he fears. Instead he grips and digs his fingers into Cyclonus's seams as though to pry his spark loose and hold onto him by that. "Rrrgh!"

"Never, my lord," Cyclonus breathes, meaning it with his whole spark and will. He would rather destroy the universe entire than permit anything in it to hurt his lord like this; and he pours his love and loyalty into his fields for Galvatron to take, hoping it is enough to outweigh the Herald's pain. _I love you, I am forever yours, please let me comfort you..._

Galvatron shudders against him, dropping his head onto Cyclonus's shoulder. His grip is still fierce enough to hurt, but the worst of the rage is bleeding out of him, now. "Cyclonus," he whispers. "My faithful Cyclonus..."

"My lord Galvatron," Cyclonus murmurs. He reaches up to slowly caress his lord's broad shoulders, slips a hand around the back of his helm. "Mighty Galvatron, my liege, my lord..."

"Go on," Galvatron mutters.

There is a peremptory edge to his tone that fails to hide the weariness of hurt beneath. Cyclonus understands, and he continues to speak softly as he strokes his lord's helm. "My lord, Galvatron, greatest and most glorious of warlords and emperors... I am yours, I will follow you forever. There is no greater honour than to stand at your side, unless it be to kneel at your feet..."

The words would be fulsome, were it not that he himself believes them. And he feels the raw edges of Galvatron's fields slowly soften, blooming with golden warmth as Galvatron _listens_ to him and remembers his own glory. His lord's deathgrip on him softens into a possessive grasp of pride and returned loyalty, and Cyclonus shivers in joy to feel himself so prized. "My lord..."

Galvatron lifts his head and silences him with a kiss: deep, thorough, exploring Cyclonus's mouth as though claiming him for the first time. Cyclonus moans, his optics dimming, charge coursing anew through his circuitry in tingling thrills of bliss.

He kisses back with all the reverence in him, worshipping Galvatron's glossa and lips with his own. Galvatron desires power, absolute and unchallenged. Cyclonus cannot give him that power over the whole universe - yet - but he can at least offer it over himself. More than obedience, more than surrender; he can give devotion and worship and his own joy in the giving of them, and let Galvatron bask in his adoration.

//Cyclonus,// Galvatron murmurs, his hands gentling at last as he runs them covetously over his warrior's dented armour. His fields lap around them, hot and syrupy now with charge and possessive desire. //My sweet, loyal Cyclonus... you _are_ mine, aren't you?//

//I am, my lord Galvatron,// Cyclonus vows, and he relaxes with a shiver of gladness at feeling Galvatron's attention and awareness returned to the moment, returned to _him_. He can serve all the more effectively when Galvatron is not distracted by things that Cyclonus cannot control. //Now and always, I am yours.//

Galvatron's engines rumble in approval, their pulse throbbing through Cyclonus's core and making him gasp. He growls as he pushes his glossa again into Cyclonus's mouth. // _Mine._ //

Cyclonus tilts his head back with an eager moan, his knee servos going weak. //Yours, mighty Galvatron...// He runs his hands carefully, worshipfully over Galvatron's backplates, and his sensornets spark with reflected ecstasy as pride and pleasure lick through his lord's fields.

Later, he will deal harshly with the cause of all this. But for now, his duty is its own reward.


	26. Weapon play - Galvatron/Hot Rod

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galvatron/Hot Rod, for the prompt "Weapon play". This is part of the ["No Red Lights"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17100032) continuity, set after ["I Still Know It's You"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19283578), around the same time as ["Outdoors"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16805194/chapters/42246854) \- ie, after Hot Rod has given up the Matrix and there is no reason he can't stay in bed with his boyfriend all day if both of them want to. And, well, there was no way I could resist going to town on this prompt with this pairing, so this is a long and very very self-indulgent fic. Warnings: weapon kink and accompanying moral issues around eroticisation of violence (though no actual onscreen violence, this fic is ridiculously fluffy), established crossfaction relationship, altmode interfacing, negotiation, talking about sex/kinks/wants/boundaries, lots of checking in and mutual respect. Tactile interfacing and auraplay, fully consensual, rated M.

"You know, there _is_ one thing I've always wanted to try."

"Hmm? Name it!"

It was surprisingly rare, these days, that Hot Rod needed to actively negotiate with his lover for anything in the berth. Galvatron was most often the one to make the first move but he was always quick to catch on if Hot Rod did instead; and after the tipping point of agreement that _yes, we both want this_ , most of their respective desires could be readily communicated with a grip or a touch, a gasped plea or a growled command. And Hot Rod was fine with that. He loved being with someone who could read him so easily and naturally, and who didn't insist on scripting every last thing and doing pre-interface risk assessments the way some of the kinkier Autobots he knew did. He trusted Galvatron enough that for most things, spontaneity worked just fine.

Now, though, he'd come up with something that was going to require complete sentences to explain, and he wasn't sure how Galvatron would take it. Still, they were lounging together on Hot Rod's berth after an already-successful round of enthusiastic mutual pleasures, and Galvatron was lying comfortably against him with that banked glow in his aura that meant he was sated, content, and as relaxed as he ever got, so this was probably a good time to ask and _here went nothing_. "I've, uh, always wondered if you'd ever let me touch your altmode."

He felt the ripple of surprise and interest through Galvatron's aura. "I didn't know you were _that_ into military hardware!" he said, looking at Hot Rod with keen curiosity.

It was a valid answer to give to an Autobot, he had to admit. "Let's just say I'm that into _you_ ," he replied, looking up at his lover. "And, well... you even got to _drive_ my altmode, but there's a whole side to you that I don't really know. There's places on you I've never even touched, I feel like I'm missing out on something. And also - and I'm saying this without my Autobot diplomatic badges on, by the way - your gun mode is really, _really_ gorgeous." His fields flushed hot with slightly guilty arousal at admitting that out loud, but it wasn't his fault it was _true_.

"So _if_ I agreed," Galvatron said, but there was a gleam in his optics and a growl in his voice that said Hot Rod had already half convinced him, "what would you want to do?"

Hot Rod's circuits tingled at the mere prospect, and he knew Galvatron would pick up the flicker of his aura as plainly as words. "Can I get away with saying I'll show you if you'll let me try?" He knew that was daring of him, but he really wasn't sure he knew quite _what_ he wanted. If Galvatron was willing to let him improvise a little...

"Hmmm." Galvatron's optics narrowed - but his hand moved to idly caress Hot Rod's forearm, fingers slick with golden charge teasing over Hot Rod's wrist guns. Hot Rod's engine hitched at the touch, pleasure thrilling up the length of the slender chromed barrels to earth itself right in his capacitor banks. "Very well," Galvatron said at last, his gaze never faltering as he watched Hot Rod tremble greedily under his hand. "If that's what you want, my Chosen One!"

Hot Rod grinned in triumph and pushed himself up on his elbow, stretching to offer his lips to Galvatron's. "Thanks," he whispered.

He shivered deliciously when Galvatron kissed him, hot and fierce, domineering as always. Despite how long they had been together by now, despite how often they ended up doing this, it still felt so good every time. Hot Rod had never felt so _wanted_ in his life as he did beneath Galvatron's possessive kisses and touches, and that feeling was as addictive as the physical pleasure. If _Galvatron_ of all mechs - quick-tempered, demanding, outrageously powerful - thought he was worth coveting and protecting and pleasuring like this...!

He reached up to curl his hand around the back of Galvatron's helm, tugging himself up and closer into the kiss. Galvatron growled delightedly against his mouth and reached to grip the back of Hot Rod's pelvic section, pulling him closer in turn, pressing Hot Rod's lighter frame to his own heavy armour. Hot Rod squirmed against his lover, metal clashing and shuddering as their plating caught and scraped and settled together. It hurt, just a little, _just right_ ; he was going to have patches of raw-stripped metal and telltale streaks of silver and purple all over him, _again_ , and the thought made his core systems pulse with heat.

 _He doesn't care who sees his paint on me. He doesn't care who knows we're doing this, who knows I'm_ his _._ //Oh... Galvatron, please...//

//Yes?// Galvatron murmured - teasing, indulgent, _playful_.

//Just - oh, _stars and void_ , I love you, you're so slagging good to me...// Cursing by the dark above them instead of the god below was un-Cybertronian, a profane, blasphemous habit that he'd picked up from Galvatron and his wing in the first place; but he liked the way the words tasted when they were doing this. It felt so much more fitting than bringing Primus into it. //I don't know what you're planning here but please don't stop!//

//Who needs a plan? I _know_ you, Hot Rod. I can improvise!// Galvatron laughed; and then with a seemingly effortless surge of power he rolled onto his back, bracing himself half-reclining on the gunsight that jutted from his back like a tail.

Hot Rod landed on top of him, sprawled across the Herald's massive chest, his thighs sliding apart to span Galvatron's flanks. Galvatron's main engines were mounted there, low in his torso where their weight acted as a counterbalance in his gun mode, and Hot Rod gasped as their heavy vibrations poured into him, throbbing down the insides of his thighs and up the length of his pelvic strip. "Hhhh! - _whoa,_ okay, don't let me stop you."

He grinned breathlessly down at his lover, thrilling inside as Galvatron grinned back with a wicked sparkle in his narrowed optics. " _That's_ better," the Herald growled.

Hot Rod briefly wondered _better for what_ , but before he had the chance to ask, he found out anyway as Galvatron's left hand curled around his flank, over his interface array cover. He gasped, writhing and clenching his thighs around Galvatron's midsection as the Herald's touch poured charge through the seams around the panel's edges. " _Nnnh!_ Okay, yeah, _much_ better... more, please...!"

Galvatron laughed, shamelessly triumphant, and tapped on Hot Rod's panel with a playful peremptoriness. Hot Rod grinned, even as his processors tried to melt at _how hot that was_ , and gratefully let go of the override that had been holding his panel lock closed. Metal clicked and transformed eagerly aside; Galvatron's fingertips slid beneath the opening cover, caressing Hot Rod's plugs and ports and rubstrips with the ease and confidence of extensive practice.

Hot Rod shuddered, going limp atop his lover with a muffled clang of metal. His helm came to rest on one of Galvatron's broad shoulder pylons like it had been made to settle there ( _maybe it had,_ a defiantly hopeful little voice in his spark whispered) and his tensor cables all went slack at once. " _Mmmmm..._ oh, _right_ there, please..."

"Shh," Galvatron soothed him.

The growl of the Herald's engines mingled with his voice, resonating right down Hot Rod's struts. His other hand was still resting on Hot Rod's back, spreading a glow of luxurious warmth under the lightweight armour there; his fingertips settled on one of the tribostatic strips framing Hot Rod's port bank, and scuffed at it just hard _enough_.

Hot Rod groaned as the sudden pulse of pleasure and charge in his hardlink circuits set up some sort of delicious interference pattern with the rippling heat of Galvatron's aura where it washed over his plating. His capacitors throbbed. "Ohhh... just so you know, I'm going to overload in about thirty seconds from now if you keep that up-"

" _Good,_ " Galvatron murmured, bending his head to nuzzle at his audial. "I'll get to your _request_ , my Chosen One, but after this!"

It was getting harder to think as more and more of his processing power diverted itself to handling sensory input and charge management. "Stars yes _please_ , but why...?"

"Once I'm in my altmode, I can't touch you back!" Galvatron's voice was rough with arousal, his fields a glittering lacework of pride and desire and possessiveness and that laser-sight gunformer's _focus_ that Hot Rod got such a thrill out of being the target of. "So, let me do this first!"

"...fair." It absolutely _was_ , especially since he knew that Galvatron far preferred to be the one giving out pleasure than merely receiving it. Fortunately, that generally lined up perfectly with Hot Rod's comfort zone; but yeah, he should have guessed that asking for any kind of shift in their usual roles was going to get a bit of overcompensation from Galvatron in response.

Still, there were worse kinds of overcompensation than handing out strut-melting overloads like they were energon goodies. "Just asking, not arguing - _ohhh_ , oh yes there _harder please Galvatron-!_ "

His voice cracked on a static-broken cry and his frame shook as Galvatron did exactly as he asked, charge-slicked fingers grinding against Hot Rod's throbbing ports. The hardlink capacitors right behind his array were already pinging red, brimful of charge and right on the brink of flashing over in a localised overload; but Galvatron's fields and his hand on Hot Rod's back were pouring energy into him _everywhere_ , and without the Matrix he simply couldn't withstand the Herald's power output as he had once been able to. He was only about six percent away from a full overload, the kind that would spread through his whole frame and every capacitor he had, and he desperately switched the relays that backed onto his hardlink capacitors and pulled all that charge back into his core systems, determined not to let anything flash over until _everything_ did-

-and then Galvatron clenched his grip across Hot Rod's back and growled " _Mine_ " in his audial.

Arousal slammed through him like a thunderbolt striking earth. His engine spun up in a desperate burst of revs that flooded his already aching capacitors with charge, and _then_ everything flashed over at once. Blue-white light burst behind his optics, his frame shook and crackled with release as his charge poured out of him - most of it earthing straight back to Galvatron, who let slip a low, ragged sound of satisfaction as his far larger capacitor banks effortlessly took up everything Hot Rod could give him. " _Ah!_ Ah, Galvatron, _please_ , oh, _yours-!_ "

" _There,_ " Galvatron growled as the blaze of charge around them died down, both his powerful arms sliding around Hot Rod to hold him fiercely close. "There, Hot Rod, my consort, my Chosen One!... was that good, hmm?"

Hot Rod tilted his head up, dazed, blinking away static, and stretched to press his mouth to Galvatron's. Tiny flickers of leftover lightning snapped between their lips and glossae as Galvatron bent his head to accept the kiss, and Hot Rod made a small, blissful sound at the star-bright tingle of it overlying the familiar smoke-and-plasma taste of Galvatron's mouth. //Mmmh... that was incredible, _you're_ incredible, and I don't know why you even need me to _tell_ you that because you know damn well that you're amazing... Seriously, that was so good though. Thanks, Galvatron.//

Galvatron laughed, but the purr of his engines resonating through Hot Rod's limp frame betrayed that he was sincerely pleased. //Perhaps I just like hearing it from you!// he teased, his radio voice full of warmth.

Hot Rod squirmed a little at that, the happiness he felt rippling through his fields in a liquid pulse of extraspectral light. If all it took to keep Galvatron's favour was shameless flattery, he considered himself lucky - and it was nice to think that his opinion was that much valued, too. "Well, you are," he murmured out loud. "Amazing, and gorgeous, and kind of terrifying honestly but y'know, I like that about you too. You wouldn't be _you_ without it." His lips worried at Galvatron's, in little darting kisses that were entirely meant to provoke his lover. It wasn't always a good idea to tease Galvatron, but Hot Rod had gotten as good as he thought it was possible to be at knowing when it was.

" _Terrifying,_ " Galvatron echoed, amused - and with sharp dentae nipping at Hot Rod's lips in return. "And yet I think you have less fear of me than anyone else in the galaxy!" He laughed, low and throaty.

Hot Rod shivered at that laugh and the way it caressed his neural nets. " _Should_ I be afraid of you?" he breathed, half-smiling despite the words.

Galvatron's optics sparked and narrowed at that, crimson-hot, and his lips curled back in a smile that made heat _pour_ down Hot Rod's backstrut. "Almost certainly!" His right hand reached toward Hot Rod's arm where it rested on his chest. "But then again, you're hardly defenceless against me... are you?"

Hot Rod let out a gasp that somehow became a keening whimper as Galvatron's fingers found the barrels of his forearm lasers and teased them, tracing sparking threads of charge across sleek, conductive chrome. "Ohh- _hhh!_ \- stars, Galvatron, I am when you're doing things like _that_ to me!" His optics darkened as he shuddered under his lover's touch, _that shouldn't feel so good but it does-!_

" _Mmm._ "

The pulse of _desire_ through Galvatron's aura, heavy and molten with plasma-heat and the vast power of a Unicronian spark behind it, rolled over Hot Rod like the tide. He gasped, arching his back as his subdermal circuitry ached with induced current and interference patterns glittered across his fields. Voiddammit, Galvatron really was _insatiable_.

But that was what he got, Hot Rod knew, for dating someone with an artillery altmode. Huge deep-cycle capacitors and their reinforced relays and interlocks, designed to be filled and drained and filled again to fire Galvatron's great cannon as fast and as often as need be, meant that not only could Galvatron hold frankly unfair amounts of charge without overloading and without even losing his concentration, but once he got revved up he just _stayed that way_. Pretty much for as long as it pleased him to.

Which was usually as long as it took to pleasure Hot Rod until he passed out, so that was the last thing Hot Rod was ever going to complain about. He shuttered his optics and bit his lip, and there was a screeling scrape of metal as his fingers curled involuntarily and dragged silver streaks down Galvatron's chestplate. Having his lasers touched drove him crazy... shouldn't, but _did_.

And that was another hidden benefit of involving himself with a warframe - Galvatron had guessed that about him from the start. During one of their very first illicit encounters he'd gone for those guns in earnest, caressing and licking and _biting_ , and Hot Rod - Rodimus Prime, at the time - had slid over the course of less than a minute from startled, guilty shame to crying out in pleasure and begging Galvatron to _please please make him overload like that-!_

Which Galvatron _had_ , with triumphant delight, and Rodimus had collapsed panting in his arms and never looked back. He still felt a little guilty, on occasion, at having such a definitively warbuild kink in his systems; but his guns had been a spark mod, one of the rare cases where a newly-bestowed spark actively reformatted something in the frame that received it. And the Matrix, even as it changed so much else, hadn't deleted them - so if Primus had given them to him, then Primus and everyone else could just deal if he wanted to let his lover play with them now and again.

Which thought brought him to the idea of him playing with _Galvatron's_ hardware, which also turned him on more than was good for him - and reminded him that there had been a plan at some point before he accepted Galvatron's all-too-tempting derail. Still, he knew better than to bring it up again. Galvatron had _said he'd get to it_ , which meant that he _would_ , and Hot Rod knew he'd take being reminded as a slight on his word and that would ruin this for both of them. Somewhat to his own surprise, being involved with the unpredictable, firebrand Decepticon warlord had taught Hot Rod more about patience and trust than all his Autobot coding ever had.

But the thing about Galvatron was that no matter how much emotional room he sometimes needed to manoeuvre in, in the end he _did_ show up where he'd said he would. He demanded Hot Rod's trust but he never betrayed it, and knowing that, Hot Rod seldom minded waiting on his lover's whims... especially not when those whims resulted in the kind of interfacing sessions where he was getting cascade-overloaded like it was going out of style. He stretched up to kiss Galvatron again, glorying in the heat and wanton luxury of being touched like this, _wanted_ like this. Galvatron was both warlord and weapon, forged and coded to let nothing stand between him and what he desired... when that kind of power and will were turned to the purpose of _giving pleasure_ , there was no wonder if the results left Hot Rod dazed with bliss.

"Having fun?" Hot Rod murmured playfully, as his lips brushed over Galvatron's. He shivered again in delight at the throb of pleasure where Galvatron was still toying with his gun barrels. "Mmm..."

" _Always,_ " Galvatron assured him, with a bright, wicked flash of _conspiracy_ through his fields and a grin against the kiss Hot Rod offered him. "And you, my consort?"

"Always," Hot Rod echoed, mirroring that flare of Galvatron's aura with his own even as his spark pulsed _joy_ all through him. Even though the rest of the Autobots had mostly graduated from telling Hot Rod to stop dating a Decepticon to asking him when the handfasting was going to be, being with his lover still always held a lingering thrill of the forbidden. Every kiss, even now, was spiced with the sweet taste of a shared victory over fate.

_We shouldn't want this. We shouldn't do this. We shouldn't be getting away with this._

_But we do, and we are, and nobody's managed to stop us._ "So... mmm... what next?"

Galvatron's optics narrowed thoughtfully at the question, darkening in a shimmering play of colour like the roll of heat over the surface of fresh-forged steel. "I think I owed you a request from earlier, did I not?!"

"Only if you want, of course." Everything in Galvatron's look and his aura and his voice was showing a green light as far as Hot Rod could read him, but Hot Rod was still going to play by their usual rules. _Galvatron does as Galvatron pleases, so always ask, never demand._ "But for the record, I'm totally still into that idea." He turned his head - Galvatron's cannon was right in his sightline, and he couldn't help biting his lip as he looked at it.

"Very well," Galvatron growled. "Give me space, then." He nudged Hot Rod sideways.

Hot Rod scrambled to comply, sliding down from his place atop his lover's frame and onto the berth padding beside him. And Galvatron simply rolled over in a smooth, powerful motion, dropped his knee as he fell off the side of the berth, and transformed in the split second before he landed.

He had one of the more extreme, and complicated, transformation sequences Hot Rod had ever seen. But the speed with which he could execute it was extraordinary, and by the time he hit the deck it was with a wall-shaking crash of artillery treads striking metal. Where the warlord of the Decepticons had been a moment before, there was now a fieldgun bigger than Hot Rod taking up most of the berthroom floor.

The resultant cognitive dissonance was almost as dramatic as the gesture that had created it. Hot Rod's mouth hung open. _Primus, he falls out of bed and he's still poetry in motion. Am I that silly in love or is he really just like this?_ He bit back a sudden impulse to laugh.

"What?!"

Apparently he hadn't bitten it back quite far enough, and he winced slightly. He wouldn't for the galaxy want Galvatron to think he was being laughed _at_. "Just thinking I've never seen anyone fall off the berth and look that much like they meant to do it."

"Of course I meant to do it!" Galvatron's voice was harsher and had less tonal range in his altmode, a natural artefact of using a vocal relay to be audible like this at all, but Hot Rod was relieved to hear that he still sounded more amused than annoyed. "Well? Are you joining me?"

"Absolutely." Hot Rod scrambled off the edge of the berth with considerably less grace than Galvatron had displayed, and came to an unsteady stop just _looking_ greedily at his lover. "...wow."

There was a lot to look at. It wasn't as though he'd never been close to Galvatron like this before; but the previous times had been in battle, and he'd been more worried about not getting shot, crushed or broken in two than about having time to admire the Herald's alternate form. But like this, with Galvatron's permission to look and _touch_...

In the back of his personality chip where his Autobot hardcoding was still doing its thing despite all the choices he'd made in his life, a tiny voice whispered _fear_. After all, he'd seen even the other Decepticons afraid of Galvatron... and, really, rightly so. Galvatron's gun frame was no less massive than his bipedal one; the sweeping axial line through his barrel and chassis and trailing strut was longer than Hot Rod was tall. His midsection between and behind his bracing struts, where his engines and capacitor banks and plasma coils were housed in this form, shimmered golden in Hot Rod's electrosense and radiated even more heat than usual. And in addition to all that purely functional menace, Galvatron's altmode, like his root mode, was armoured and decorated in a style that was millions of years out of date and yet somehow failed to convey even a hint of obsolescence. To modern optics Galvatron looked like some fantasy nightmare, a memory from the dark ages of Cybertron reforged into something beyond the cutting edge of wartech. As though Unicron had simply swept together the entire history of Cybertronian military endeavour, distilled it, and called the result perfection.

And on that last, if on nothing else, Hot Rod had to agree with his world's ancient enemy. He folded down to one knee in Galvatron's shadow, beside Galvatron's right track unit and looking up at the huge golden barrel stretching above him as he ducked his head down by its near end. The dark, heavy scent of tread grease lay thick against his chemosensors, mingling with the ozone prickle of ionising air that haloed Galvatron's capacitor blocks and plasma coil housing. Hot Rod felt his lasercore pulse quicken, sharp and unsteady behind his chestplate, as he carefully reached out and laid his hand on the armoured strut beside him.

His dermal sensors pinged _heat_ and the golden crackle of Galvatron's fields, and the touch got a low growl from Galvatron's engines, far closer than usual to Hot Rod's head. The experience felt at once familiar and excitingly new. "Okay?" he asked softly, feeling a sudden need to check in for his own sake as much as Galvatron's.

"Trust me," Galvatron told him with an edge of exasperation, "if it wasn't, you'd know about it!"

Hot Rod laughed, knowing that Galvatron was absolutely fine if he was firing off impatient half-threats in reply to consent checks. "Ten-four on that," he murmured teasingly as he smoothed his hand further up the Herald's bracing strut.

The violet metal felt just as glossy and sleek and vibrant with power as any piece of Galvatron that he was used to touching, and caressing it prompted Galvatron's growl to soften into something suspiciously close to a purr. Hot Rod nudged his core engine's throttle and purred right back, delighting in the ripple of resonance between their frames as the air around them trembled. He moved his hand higher, onto Galvatron's main hull plating - almost scorching his dermal sensors on the colossal blaze of power that throbbed beneath it - and then, daring, to the base of Galvatron's barrel. The golden metal was hot to his touch, and the energy patterns woven around it were so dense and textured that they felt almost liquid-thick against his own lighter fields. "Wow."

The word slipped out of him, a soft breath of true awe. Galvatron's reply was a low rumble; a sound that resonated through his chassis, metal buzzing against metal where Hot Rod's palm brushed so lightly over his plating. "Hmmmm?"

"Just... your _aura_ , wow. It's unreal, your fields are so complex like this... I feel like I've practically got my hand on your spark just touching you." His aura-sense and tactile sensornets were flooded with data and all of it translated as simply _Galvatron_ , a thousand layers and nuances and details of his lover's hardware and circuit layouts, energy flows and emotions and _essence_. The only comparable experience he could call to mind was the rare times he had been allowed to look and reach beneath Galvatron's glacis armour, his hand on the Herald's lasercore shielding with plasma starfire melting the paint off his fingertips. This was less supremely overwhelming - a little - but the spirit of it was very much the same.

"It feels something like that from this side, too!"

 _Whoa_ , that was not an admission he'd been expecting. Hot Rod felt his own spark jolt against its containment. "Yeah?" he coaxed, his tone echoed by the slow steady glide of his hand over Galvatron's barrel, the silk-and-syrup drag of his fingers combing through Galvatron's fields. He shifted his weight upwards and inwards to reach higher, leaning against Galvatron's bracing strut, feeling the immovable weight of his lover's frame effortlessly take and support his. "Do you like it?"

"So far!"

The words might have been accused of being noncommittal, but the familiar rough edge of arousal in Galvatron's voice was clear even through his altmode's vocal relay and Hot Rod knew exactly what it meant. Denying him a straight _yes_ was just Galvatron's hair-trigger defensive protocols doing their thing; he was leaving himself room as always to change his mind in a sparkpulse, to keep the power and control he so profoundly needed in order to let something like this happen at all, and there was no way Hot Rod was going to hold _that_ against him. "Okay," he murmured. "I guess I can keep this up, then, huh?"

"If you please!" Galvatron's aura flickered briefly bright with playfulness as he replied. He knew damn well that Hot Rod pleased.

Hot Rod pleased _very much_ , frankly. This had to be up there in the top five hottest things Galvatron had ever let him do, and he deliberately let all the awe and desire and arousal and _love_ he was feeling flood into his own fields in response: _thank you, thank you for letting me do this, this is amazing..._

"Good, 'cause I want to," was all he said out loud, with a ragged grin of pure happiness that he knew Galvatron would hear even if he couldn't see it. He didn't know for sure what Galvatron's sensorium configuration was in this mode, let alone how he subjectively experienced it. Was he using alternate optical feeds, or some kind of radar or lidar? Was he seeing the world in colour or monochrome or glittering wireframe?

Hot Rod simply didn't know. "Question," he said, curiosity getting the better of him even as he stroked over Galvatron's barrel and snuggled up against his strut. "What are your primary senses right now? You've never told me what you use in this mode."

"Hmm! Microseismic and T-dar for terrain and firing solution plotting, plus filtered wideband optical, audial and radio of course - and _right_ now," he added with a teasing edge in his voice, "tactile and auric, obviously." He chuckled, low and husky and entirely too self-aware; Hot Rod squirmed as his spinal strut tingled and his altmode engine tried to kick online without permission. "Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering how the world looks to you like this. And... maybe if there was anywhere on you I'm not touching and should be." He tried to put a hint of seduction into his tone, though he wasn't sure he was all that good at it. He didn't think he'd ever be as unselfconsciously confident and sensual as Galvatron, and especially without the Matrix he just couldn't make his voice _do_ that.

Fortunately it seemed like Galvatron was oblivious to his shortcomings. The Herald growled thoughtfully, and Hot Rod had to swallow a whimper as his spark seemed to throb at the exact frequency of his lover's lazily rumbling engines. _Oh stars and void just let him wrap himself around that noise and melt into a puddle._

"Hmm... My primary T-dar transceiver is in my sighting array. You _could_ try there," Galvatron suggested after a moment's thought, archly enough that Hot Rod knew it was an admission. Galvatron would never give away a weakness in so many words, but that, by his standards, was an absolutely blatant hint.

"If you wouldn't mind," Hot Rod murmured, playing along with his spark spinning fast. Slowly, he picked his way up to his feet again, all the while making sure to stroke and caress and stay in contact with every inch of Galvatron's frame that he could. The thought crossed his processors - and was hastily bookmarked for later - that sometime he should try offering to do Galvatron's polish in this form. It was the traditional excuse to put your hands quite literally all over someone, and it seemed that for all his commitment to plausible deniability, Galvatron really did like being touched in this mode.

Once he was standing up straight, he tucked himself into the angle where Galvatron's bracing strut met his hull. The base of the huge golden barrel was at precisely the right height to press against his midsection, and he found himself in a perfect position to stroke over the top of Galvatron's plasma coil block and back towards his sight.

He let his hand move slowly, feeling the massively thick containment plating under his touch thrumming with power. Galvatron's metal was searing hot, but he could feel that as he stubbornly pressed himself to his lover despite the temperature warnings, his frame was adapting. His cooling systems might be dialled up high but at the same time his tensor cables were slackening and his armour's seams opening up as though he'd immersed himself in a hot-oil bath, and the longer the sensation went on the more addictively delicious it was becoming. He let out a small, blissful sound of contentment.

"Enjoying yourself?" Galvatron asked him teasingly.

Apparently the Herald's audials were no less sharp than usual in this mode, at any rate. "Are you kidding? Of course I am." His hand reached the base of Galvatron's sight and he paused, stroking the sleek curves there. "You feel amazing, I could touch you like this for hours if you'd let me."

Galvatron laughed, his tone harsh and metallic through his vocal relay but his fields warm and reassuringly relaxed where they lapped over Hot Rod's sensors. "Good!" he said, without further clarification.

Hot Rod chose to take that as generalised encouragement. Slowly, trying to telegraph his intentions as much as he could, he curled his fingers around Galvatron's sight and gripped it loosely before stroking carefully up its length.

Its sharp edges fitted perfectly into the angles of his finger joints. The sensor pad in his thumb seemed to glide like steelsilk over Galvatron's paint as he pressed it against the front of the sight, and the response he got was a low, ragged-edged rumble of Galvatron's engines and a scorching pulse of desire through the Herald's fields.

 _Wow._ Circuits fizzing with daring and excitement, Hot Rod very cautiously let his hand slide all the way up and nudged his thumb into the notch at the sight's top. The split tines there were just far enough apart to let him stroke between them, and he could feel the static haze of his lover's arousal tingling in the narrow gap... and Galvatron shuddered, engines revving hard and loud enough to shake his frame against Hot Rod's, the air cracking as loose charge arced between them. "Hot Rod-!"

" _Whoa_... Galvatron..." He was breathless with surprise and the sudden jolt to his circuitry, but that had definitely been _pleasure_ in Galvatron's fields rather than a warning. "Like that, huh?"

Galvatron couldn't really lean into Hot Rod's hand; but there was a brief, heavy creak and rattle from his treads as he shifted forward, pushing the whole weight of his frame against Hot Rod, _demanding_. " _Yes._ "

Shoved physically off-balance and dizzy with awe and delight, Hot Rod staggered slightly, caught himself with his free arm over the base of Galvatron's barrel, and pressed eagerly against his lover with his hand staying _right where it was_. "Sure thing," he murmured, as seductively as he knew how. He flexed his thumb carefully, stroking and rubbing in that small tight space at the top of Galvatron's sight, and his own capacitors ached with charge as Galvatron honest-to-skies _purred_ under his touch.

He'd known Galvatron's "tail" was a sweet spot on his root mode. He hadn't put together that that must be a morphic echo from his gun mode, much as Hot Rod's spoiler carried over the sensitivity that let it adapt to airflow in his car form. Now he _did_ know, he was making a mental note to exploit that fact as often as he could get away with, because _getting to make Galvatron purr_ was a treat indeed. "Thank you," he murmured, sparkfelt. "Thank you so much for letting me do this..."

He knew he'd said the right thing when pleasure and heat and _pride_ rippled through Galvatron's fields in reply. "My pleasure, Hot Rod!" he murmured, his voice husky even through his vocal relay. "I'm waiting to find out what else you've got in mind!"

He'd been delighted enough at getting away with this much. Galvatron was still open to more? "I'm thinking about it," Hot Rod admitted, squirming a little at the throb of excitement and arousal through his circuits. "You're just... I hardly know where to start." He ran his free hand over the base of Galvatron's barrel again, through the silken tug of Galvatron's fields. Stars and void, he wanted to just _soak_ himself in his lover's aura like this...

And then something flickered through his processors, something he'd seen humans, particularly smaller ones, do on Earth. For a moment the potential effrontery of the idea daunted him, but... he looked, measured, guessed at weights and centres of gravity, and it _ought_ to work.

And now he'd thought of it, he couldn't help the way the thought was making his engines spin up. "Galvatron?"

"Yes?"

"You will stop me if anything I do isn't okay, right? Preferably without actually shooting me?"

"Of course I will!"

"Well," Hot Rod said, "if _this_ isn't okay, stop me, and I really do mean that." He stepped back and up onto the track assembly behind him, and stretched to slide his foot over the base of Galvatron's barrel.

Galvatron went _still_ , his fields taut as he waited for Hot Rod to go on, but he didn't object. Hot Rod hooked that knee, pushed off with his other foot, grabbed and scrambled a little, and finished up straddling Galvatron's barrel with both feet off the ground.

" _Hmmmm._ "

Galvatron made a low, thoughtful sound, his engines spinning up again and sending vibration tingling through Hot Rod's thighs and pelvic section. Hot Rod gasped at the sensation and instinctively hung on tighter, fingers clutching at the hot-golden metal in front of him and his thigh cables tensing. "I take it I'm not in trouble?" he managed, a little too breathless to sound as playful as he'd meant to.

"Not _yet_ ," Galvatron replied with a dark chuckle.

Hot Rod squirmed. He still didn't know if he'd picked up his kink for Galvatron's teasing threats on the battlefield or some other way entirely, but oh _stars_ it made his circuits spark when Galvatron said things like that. "That's, uh, that's good," he managed, trying not to whimper as he clenched his actuators again. Cautiously he leaned forward, trusting to Galvatron's counterbalanced weight distribution to keep them both stable, sliding his hands up the length of his lover's barrel as he slowly flattened himself down against it. Power crackled against his armour, Galvatron's fields laden with charge where they meshed with his. "Oh... Galvatron, _wow_..."

"Mmm." Galvatron's considering tone edged into a growl of pleasure. "You feel good like this, my Chosen One," he murmured, his voice low and roughened.

His aura flushed hot at the praise. "Well, uh, good? Because _you_ feel _incredible_..."

He lowered his head, stretched now along the length of Galvatron's barrel and hanging on mostly with his knees. He almost thought he really could melt like this, imagined his own paint dripping like oil onto Galvatron's, everything he was wrapped liquid and yielding around his lover's inviolable strength... Impulsively he pressed his lips to the golden metal underneath him; kissing and then daring to lick, worshipping, gasping at the burn of Galvatron's fields against the electromagnetic sensor coils in his glossa.

It shouldn't feel this good. It _shouldn't_ \- he was an Autobot, even if he wasn't the Prime any more. He should never be comfortable around someone who was _literally destruction incarnate_ , let alone be _turned on_ by them even when they were wearing that identity in its most brutally uncompromised, undisguised form. He'd been challenged by his friends so many times, as though they thought he was in some kind of denial. _You know what he is. How can you touch him? How can you trust him?_

He wasn't in denial. He'd seen what the great weapon now pressed between his thighs was capable of, he _knew_ Galvatron was warforged to the core of his being and never could, never _wanted to_ change. He had to deal every day with the knowledge that he was in love with someone who would inevitably regard violence as a first rather than last resort, who was always watching the world through targeting sights, whose comfort zone was everyone else's war zone.

But at the same time, hadn't Galvatron been the one to accept _him_ when his own people were burying him in good intentions and calling him by a name and rank he'd never wanted? Hadn't Galvatron been the only one to _listen_ when he'd broken down in despair under the weight of the Matrix and his guilt and doubt, the one to offer him sanctuary, the one who called him _Hot Rod_ no matter which frame he was wearing at the time?

Galvatron, he thought with a bittersweet pang, had wanted all the pieces of him that the Autobots had been willing to throw away. Hot Rod couldn't do anything less in return than love the Herald just as he was - and that included _like this_ , with all plausible deniability erased, every last piece of him configured for war and death...

...and even in this form _still indulging Hot Rod's whims_ , still inviting his touch and _trusting_ him, willing to let him play with the kind of fire that could torch the galaxy. This was probably the most dangerous impulsive idea he'd ever had and yet he'd never felt so safe in his life. A small, ragged pleading sound escaped him as he twined his limbs tighter around Galvatron's barrel and kissed and licked eagerly at its silken-polished metal. Primus forgive him, this was _perfect_.

Even better, he could tell that Galvatron was enjoying it too. He could feel and taste the charge building in the Herald's systems, the overspill of it prickling on his plating like the anticipation of a storm. He ran his hand slowly up the heavy barrel's underside, caressing its sweeping curves, the reinforced seams where the metal was jointed to allow for expansion as it heated up from firing. Galvatron's fields were so thick with charge that he could feel their interference with his own like a physical pull, a drag of crosscurrents against each other that sent odd little pulses of stray magnetism tickling through his palm.

Inspired, he lifted his hand away, just barely breaking the physical contact of metal on metal, and instead he tried to channel his charge to the tips of his fingers so he could comb them through Galvatron's aura and still be felt. It took him some concentration - Galvatron was better at charge- and auraplay, he had microgenerators right there in his fingertips and impossibly powerful fields thanks to the permanent plasma overcharge he carried. The Herald could do things with his aura that the Autobots didn't even have documentation for.

But that being so, Hot Rod could at least claim to have learned from the best; and his studies had not been in vain. His aura-touch might be a little uncertain but it worked, and he let out a soft breath of delight as his fingertips ghosted over Galvatron's armour.

His reward was to feel Galvatron shudder underneath him, a muffed growl slipping out of him in another heavy, throaty rev of his engines. Galvatron's aura pulsed bright-hot, washing over Hot Rod _just the way he'd wanted_ , and Hot Rod moaned out loud. "Ohh... _stars_ , Galvatron..."

"I'm not sure which of us is enjoying this more!" Galvatron murmured, laughter in his voice layered over the heat of his desire. "Satisfied yet, Hot Rod?!"

"More than, but that doesn't mean I want to stop." Hot Rod grinned, even as he stroked his hand down Galvatron's barrel again. "I wanted to make this good for both of us and you didn't even overload yet... wait, _can_ you overload in this mode?"

"Of course I can!"

"Okay, can I _make_ you overload in this mode?" He bit his lip at the thought. "Please?"

Galvatron laughed, low and wicked. "You may try!"

"That's all I was asking for," Hot Rod murmured. He twined his legs tighter around Galvatron's barrel and hooked his feet together underneath it, trying to press as much of himself as closely against his lover's armour as he could. Lowering his head again, he nuzzled at the hot golden metal; static fizzed white in his optical display as the intensity of Galvatron's fields interfered with his cranial circuitry, but he blinked it away and didn't draw back. Blowing a few fuses would be a small price to pay for the chance to experience _this_.

His hand slid up until he could trace the rim of Galvatron's muzzle, the metal there sharp-edged under his fingertips, plasma heat scorching over his hand as he dared it into Galvatron's line of fire. If Galvatron chose to pull the trigger now he'd _lose_ that hand, solid metal turned to liquid if not _vapour_ , and the sweet, defiant joy of trusting his lover like this was more delicious than any mere physical pleasure could have ever been.

Especially when- " _Keep doing that,_ " Galvatron growled. His engines revved again, heavy and ragged, pleasure throbbing through his frame and fields.

And Hot Rod belatedly realised that as he'd clinched his frame so tightly against his lover's, he had pressed the underside of his pelvic strip hard against the front of Galvatron's main hull. Which meant that now, every bit of that engine-vibration was being transmitted straight into _his_ frame and shuddering up his spinal strut, spreading as resonance through the flat planes of his spoiler, compelling his own lighter engines to match revs with Galvatron's or be shaken off their mounts. The rush of forced stimulation, the sudden shock of losing control to his lover when he'd been so sure that for _once_ that couldn't happen, was excruciatingly erotic and he cried out and clung and arched his back to press down harder and get _more_ of it. " _Ah!_ Oh, oh, Galvatron... please...!"

Dimly through the flood of sensation and pleasure and the molten heat of Galvatron's fields swamping his own, he heard Galvatron laugh - triumphant, _delighted_ at his reaction. And then his interlocks gave way and his capacitors flashed over, and he cried out in ecstatic relief. Blue-white lightning cascaded under and over his armour, tingling in every seam and crackling down the length of his struts; he writhed, clinging to Galvatron as the Herald's capacitors greedily soaked up every drop of his shed charge. " _Mmm_ , Hot Rod... that's it, go on!"

"Trying," he gasped. He really was, his engines screaming on the edge of redline as he downshifted and forced them to pump out more power, prolonging his overload and pouring all the spare charge he could generate into Galvatron's systems. His voice was muffled as he licked and kissed urgently over Galvatron's barrel, drowning in the bliss of charge flooding between them and the unbelievable rush of hearing Galvatron even _almost_ beg him for more. Metal screeched on metal as he clutched harder than he'd intended to, clawing paint off both of them. "Galvatron, oh... anything you want, oh _please_ you feel so good... _ohhh!_ "

" _Nnnnh!_ "

Even when Hot Rod was Rodimus Prime, being in contact with Galvatron when he overloaded had always felt like being hit by a meteor. Like this, in his lighter frame - with his relays still in output mode as he chased the last of his own overload, and no part of him in contact with anything that _wasn't_ Galvatron's plating - it was more like being submerged in a tidal wave. The blaze of Galvatron's charge breaking loose lit everything around them in blue and golden light, haloed both of them in Saint Elmo's fire, sent miniature lightnings pouring over Hot Rod's armour. The roar of artillery engines shook the walls, pounding vibration through Hot Rod's struts, and all he could do was lower his head and offline his optics and cling in overwhelmed delight as he was swallowed up in the storm of his lover's pleasure. "Oh - _Galvatron!_ "

" _Rrrrgh._ " Galvatron's frame relaxed with a final strut-deep shudder. His voice merged with the rumble of decelerating engines and the hissing rattle of vaporised coolant rising from his hull vents. Iridescent droplets condensed on Hot Rod's armour, dripped from the ceiling overhead. " _Hahhh_... mmm. Hot Rod?"

"Right here," Hot Rod managed, giddy with euphoria, almost laughing even through the slowly dawning awareness that his paint was covered in scorchmarks and his diagnostics were reporting minor shorts and burnouts all through his sensornets. "Whoa. _Wow._ I really hope you enjoyed that as much as I did." He had ended up with both his arms and knees wrapped around Galvatron, clinging like a cable vine with his head pillowed on his lover's muzzle. It was amazingly comfortable despite the scalding heat against his ventral plates.

" _Very_ much," Galvatron murmured, pleasure coiling under the surface of his voice like light in molten metal. "That was an excellent idea!"

He'd thought he couldn't possibly feel any better about this situation, and then all of a sudden he could. "Thanks," he said a little shyly, and turned his head to press a kiss to the edge of Galvatron's muzzle. "Can we maybe do it again sometime?"

"I'll consider it!" Galvatron said, with an archly playful edge in his tone that Hot Rod knew meant _yes_. "But for now, get down from there and let me transform!"

"Do I have to?" Hot Rod pleaded. He wouldn't usually have challenged a demand like that, but maybe just this once Galvatron might be willing to relent-

The ratcheting click of Galvatron's transformation cog echoed loudly off the berthroom walls. Hot Rod yelped as the warm length of metal he'd been cuddling was whipped away, tossing him head over heels at his own ceiling. "Yie!"

Of course, a second later he landed with a crash in his lover's arms, perfectly safe - and promptly burst out laughing. "Galvatron-!"

"I gave you fair warning!" Galvatron retorted, laughing with him. He dropped backwards in a casual controlled fall onto Hot Rod's berth, swinging his legs up and rolling over to deposit Hot Rod at his side. "There!"

"You know what? This is fine too." Shaking his head, still grinning, sore to his struts and warm all over, Hot Rod snuggled blissfully into Galvatron's arms. He reached up to stroke the side of his lover's helm, his fingers curling in a hopeful little tug.

And Galvatron deigned to bend his proud crowned head and claim Hot Rod's lips with his own, and Hot Rod dimmed his optics and arched up with a happy little whimper. //I love you,// he whispered, and the words held his whole spark.

//Sentimental Autobot,// Galvatron reproved him fondly, but Hot Rod could feel him smile.


End file.
